


The Very Secret Diary of Will Graham

by MissDisoriental



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Crack, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Hannibal has the patience of a saint, Humor, M/M, Murder Husbands, Post-Season/Series 03, and is constantly having the shit sassed out of him, but don't flirt with Hannibal's mongoose or he will murder you to death, by sassy Will Graham, poor hannibal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-11-12 10:06:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 30,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11159646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissDisoriental/pseuds/MissDisoriental
Summary: Will reflects on his new life as one half of a pair of Murder Husbands.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ElectraRhodes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElectraRhodes/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [威尔·格拉汉姆的秘密日记](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11170347) by [spacemonkey42](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemonkey42/pseuds/spacemonkey42)



> So…there is absolutely no excuse for this, beyond being the crack fic I needed to get out my system before I start uploading my next monster-length angsty one :-)

**Monday**

I’ve decided I’m going to keep a diary for self-reflective purposes. In fact if I’m honest I have extremely high ambitions for this diary-keeping enterprise. I quite fancy myself as an intrepid chronicler of contemporary social mores, and the zeitgeist, and shit like that. Sort of in the manner of Samuel Peyps or Dr Johnson, or similar.

Hmmm. Have just re-read the above and decided that it perhaps sounds a bit…grandiose. But then this isn’t entirely my fault because I’ve recently been spending a large amount of time with the most grandiose person outside of the Emperor Napoleon, and there seems like a very real possibility of grandiosity being sexually transmitted.

In fact if the Emperor Napoleon combined grandiose egomania with Kanye West and Madonna then H would still murder the resulting monster ego hybrid to death. And then sexually transmit it to me just for the hell of it.

 **13.00** H, as expected, was insufficiently impressed when I told him about my intentions to be a chronicler of the twenty first century. In fact he didn’t look impressed at all; he just looked superior and said: “A _diary_ , Will? _Really_?”

This was done in a tone of voice that was fantastically over the top. It was the same tone of voice most people would have said “A festering _turd_ , Will? _Really_?”

Anyway, I don’t know what he’s bitching about – it’s not like he has to read it or anything.

 **14.30**    Just caught H trying to read my diary. Needless to say he was completely unrepentant about it – he just sat there looking even more superior than usual while I threw a tantrum then waited until I’d ran out of breath before raising a single eyebrow and saying: “A festering turd Will?”

I was about to inform him that he has all the boundaries and self-restraint of a festering turd but then someone knocked on the door and the moment was lost. It was Hieronomo, who owns the local delicatessen and delivers H’s pretentious over-priced maniac food. He staggered in with a crateful of the stuff and dumped it on the table, then explained that he’s intending to move premises next month so we should take his number to ensure continual smooth arrival of our deliveries. H promptly vanished and left me to deal with it (this is typical) so I had to listen to Hieronomo rambling on in an extremely boring way about leases and Italian real estate and all sorts of other crap. I smiled and nodded sympathetically and pretended I was listening, even though I wasn’t listening at all because I was too busy trying to work out how the hell H managed to look so morally superior after being caught reading someone else’s diary. How _did_ he manage it? It’s like he’s got weird Jedi Mind Powers. Unfortunately for me these, unlike grandiosity, do not appear to be sexually transmitted.

Anyway I obviously overdid the fake listening because Hieronomo started patting me on the shoulder and saying that I was very “empatica.” Felt like telling him to fuck off. He then stood over me and made me type his number into my phone, where it’s now lurking right underneath H’s number in my contact list. Hannibal and Hieronomo: it sounds like a crap singing duo in the manner of Renée and Renato (except worse).

Hieronomo is still stood there, grinning broadly. I have an unpleasant suspicion that he might be developing a bit of a crush on me, which if so will certainly prove fatal (to him) because when H finds out then he will murder him to death.

 **17.00**    Hannibal and Hieronomo could also be a pair of crap detectives. Like Starsky and Hutch, but on a really low budget.

 **17.05** Or a pair of gay Italian hairdressers.

 **17.10** H has just stuck his head round the door and loudly informed me that grandiosity is not, in fact, sexually transmitted and that if I have taken it upon myself to be a grandiose chronicler of the twenty first century then is it very unreasonable to try and blame this unfortunate ambition on him.

H actually looks rather attractive when he’s pretending to be morally superior but I am not going to tell him that because he’s smug enough as it is and the last thing he needs is encouragement.

 **17.15** On reflection I’ve decided that it would be wise to put a lock on my diary. It will be extremely inconvenient if H keeps reading it because I intend to use it to bitch about him _extensively_.

 **17.40** Just caught H picking the lock on my diary. Strong measures clearly required.

 **18.00** In the end I hid the diary in my toolbox, where he will never look because it’s too closely associated with Manual Labor and The Sweat of One’s Brow and An Honest Day’s Work, and all other manner of things which are like Kryponite to pretentious maniacs. At least that is the plan.

 **19.00** I’ve just cornered H in the kitchen and delivered a long lecture to him about how inappropriate it is to loll around looking superior as opposed to sorrowful and repentant when you’ve been caught reading someone else’s diary. Needless to say this attempt wasn’t exactly what you’d call successful – H just sat there the entire time with a smug smile on his face that could clearly be translated as ‘I have precisely zero fucks to give about this.’

 **19.10** I loudly informed H that he is enormously annoying but he just rolled his eyes heavenward as if to imply that there were so many fucks he did not give about _this_ that they were literally falling from the ceiling.

 **19.15**    H’s whole ‘I have no fucks to give’ routine has made me realize that _I_ am now being the annoying one; despite the fact he clearly started it. This is further evidence of the Jedi Mind Control Hypothesis, so I decided to try and regain some control over the situation by proposing writing a list of all the annoying things H does that he must promise to stop doing.

“Yes, beloved,” said H with an obviously maniacal smile. “But only if you will agree to do the same.”

I guess that’s fair enough (even though I am nowhere _near_ as annoying as H, but I suppose he is old and should occasionally be humored). We have pinned the list to the fridge:

_Annoying Things That ~~Will and Hannibal~~ ~~Hannibal and Will~~ Mature Well-Adjusted Adults Should Not Do_

  1. Read your partner’s diary.
  2. Pick the lock on your partner’s diary.
  3. Smile maniacally when caught reading your partner’s diary. ~~Or at any time really. Look, just don’t smile maniacally okay, it’s as creepy as hell, cut that shit out.~~
  4. Accuse your partner of sexually transmitting your undesirable character traits.
  5. Fondly reminisce over the time you got your partner wrongly convicted of mass murder then boast about how clever you were to get away with it.
  6. Constantly refer to how your partner threw you off a cliff every time you want to win an argument ~~because it was only a small cliff and it’s not like he didn’t throw himself off as well, so what’s the big fucking deal? Amirite?~~.
  7. Wax lyrical about being Number 1 on the FBI’s Most Wanted as if this is some kind of impressive lifetime achievement endeavor.
  8. Be enormously snide and condescending about the neighbors behind their backs as opposed to being sociable and friendly and not acting as if you think you and your partner are better than everyone else ~~even though you clearly are.~~



**20.00** The list is getting longer – we’ll soon need a bigger bit of paper. Eventually we’ll probably need a bigger fridge.

  1. Respect your partner’s wardrobe choices and not behave as if (1) wearing plaid is a sign of unspeakable depravity or (2) make observations along the lines of “you’re only sulking because you can’t wear something that was handstitched in a Milanese grotto a century ago. By fucking elves.”
  2. Not make excruciating cannibal puns and follow them up with a ‘ _look at me everyone,_ _oh my God, I’m so clever and hilarious_ ’ smirk.
  3. Not manufacture early symptoms of encephalitis and follow them up with “maybe I should get a brain scan, what do you think? Oh sorry I forgot – you’re not _really_ the best person to ask are you, you malevolent shit?”



Number 9 is particularly relevant I feel, given that H is the same person who once crapped out a convoluted metaphor along the lines of ‘ _Do you know who would look amazing in the moonlight – in the snow – completely naked and covered in blood? YOU_ ’ because anyone who says such things clearly can’t be considered a reliable source of fashion advice.

**Tuesday**

H has been out the villa a lot in the past few days, allegedly because he’s arranging ‘a big surprise’ for me. Most people would be pleased if their partners told them that, but I think it’s ominous. After all, the last time H sprung a big surprise it was because he turned out to be the Chesapeake Ripper.

 **12.00** Just looked on the internet to see if there have been any unsolved murders that might turn out to be H’s big surprise.

 **12.30** Asked H if the big surprise is legal. He says it is, but I was only slightly reassured considering that H knows eight different languages and speaks fluent bullshit in all of them.

 **13.00** Confronted H again and asked him to give me his solemn word that the surprise is not illegal. H just opened his eyes very wide and tried to look innocent, but I told him not to bother because while he has a wide array of varied and impressive skills looking innocent isn’t one of them. H has never looked innocent in his life. In fact he was almost certainly born looking lethal. I bet the midwife’s first words were: “What an extraordinarily malevolent looking baby. Fingers and toes all correct, but quite unusually evil-looking.” In fact if H had been born now he would undoubtedly have become an internet sensation. Possibly a meme called ‘Evil Baby.’

 **14.00** H has gone out again…ominous.

 **14.30** Oh God I’m so bored.

 **14.35** B-o-r-e-d.

 **15.00**    Just saw a hysterical article on the internet by a former FBI agent ranting about how no one has managed to catch H yet. It described him several times as ‘a monster,’ which is actually rather ironic considering that he is exactly the type of monster I’d like to find hiding under my bed. Or in my wardrobe. Or pretty much anywhere really, if I’m totally honest.

 _Note to self:_ try and persuade H to hide under the bed then leap out at me when I'm not expecting it as a form of creative foreplay.

 **15.30** Have just found an old copy of _Cosmopolitan_ behind the bedside table – obviously left behind by previous tenants. I’m ashamed to say that I ended up reading it, but only because it’s truly tragic what becomes of a person when their maniacal lover had disappeared to do things of unspecified legality and they’ve been left with too much time on their hands.

 **15.40**    Hmm, _Cosmopolitan_ has a whole double-page spread devoted to solving reader’s relationship dilemmas: ‘Ask Jennifer.’ I must admit I was quite tempted. Do I dare? I’m not sure if I dare.

 **15.42** Hell yes, I dare.

_Dear Jennifer,_

_Hello._

_So, I recently threw my lover off a cliff – although I should emphasize at this point that no matter what he says to the contrary it was only a SMALL cliff ~~(and he is also a malevolent old shit, and widely hated, so it’s not as if he didn’t deserve it).~~ However despite the fact he survived falling off the cliff and sustained no lasting injuries whatsoever, he won’t stop complaining about it and constantly uses it as a concluding point to try and win an argument. And I am sure you'd agree Jennifer, that when you say “I don't want to clean the villa today, why can't you do it?” and the response is invariably along the lines of “Well if you recall Will, you DID recently throw me off a cliff” then this is more than unusually aggravating. Anyway, my question is this: considering that I threw myself off the same cliff (at the same time) could this technically be seen to cancel out throwing him off a cliff; and if so, would it cancel it out (a) slightly, (b) partially, or (c) entirely …_

**15.50**    I‘ve changed my mind about writing to Ask Jennifer from _Cosmopolitan –_ in retrospect there seems a high likelihood that she might contact the authorities to tell them there’s some weirdo in Italy throwing people off cliffs. Then Jack will turn up on the villa steps surrounded by the FBI’s finest and H will murder them all to death (so then we would have a big pile of FBI corpses in the back garden and God only knows what the neighbors would say).

Nevertheless, despite this brief setback, it’s actually quite interesting reading women’s magazines when you are not a woman. That is to say, when you are a man.

 **15.55** Speaking of men, there was a whole double page spread on ‘How to Keep Your Guy Happy,’ which made me wonder how much good I am at keeping H happy. The honest answer is probably not much…but it’s not like he deserves it so I didn’t feel particularly guilty.

 **16.00** The lack of guilt is also compounded by the fact that H has absolutely _no idea_ about how to keep anyone happy, as well as being crap at all things romantic. After all, H’s idea of seduction is to call someone a mongoose and then try to murder them.

 **16.05** As for his idea of a romantic candlelit dinner…oh my fucking God. I can’t even.

 **16.07** Although – to be fair – I suppose I have been a bit of a shit myself. After all, I’ve tried to kill him nearly as many times as he’s tried to kill me.

 **16.10** And I did throw him off a cliff.

 **16.11** Am now feeling guilty for not trying to keep H more happy. Shall refer to _Cosmopolitan_ for advice.

 **16.15** According to _Cosmopolitan_ I could keep H marginally more happy by sending him sexual text messages. This is known as ‘sexting’: “ _Surprise and delight your guy with an unexpected message while he’s at work – tell him what you’re imagining him doing and he won’t be able to think of anything else all day!_ ” I must admit that I’m not totally convinced how applicable this advice is for me. For starters H hardly has a regular day job – I’m not sure he’d be either surprised or delighted if I interrupted him whilst murdering someone with a _‘Hey baby! Come home now and give it to me in the ass’_ text.

 **16.30**    Although _Cosmopolitan_ seems to think that it would make him happy and they surely know more about men (and how to keep them happy) than I do. Even though I am a man.

 **16.31** Am now confused.

 **17.00** Can’t stop wondering whether I should send H a sext, and if so whether it would partially atone for throwing him off a cliff.

 **17.05** _~~Dear Jennifer. Having recently thrown my lover off a cliff, would you agree that sending him a sexual text message could be considered…~~ _

**17.10** Okay, to be honest – it probably wouldn't. But it might make him happy. At least it will if he doesn’t have to break off from murdering someone to read it.

 **18.00** I have decided that I am going to send H a sext!

 **18.10** Just had a glass of wine to get in the mood. Then two.

 **18.50** Hmmm, this wine is actually pretty good.

 **19.40** Whole wine bottle now empty. Might be a bit drunk.

 **20.00** Am definitely drunk.

 **20.30** Alright, let’s DO THIS. I’m ready. I WAS BORN READY.

 **20.55** _Been thinking about you all day. I’m so hard for you._

That’s okay isn’t it? Or is it maybe a bit _obvious_? The last part isn’t even true because I’m way too drunk to even think about erections let alone actually manufacture one. Although I probably shouldn’t say that. Honesty isn’t always the best policy, especially when it comes to sexting.

 **20.56**    _Oh my God I can’t wait any longer. Come back RIGHT NOW and fuck me_.

Hmm, that’s better. Or, I don’t know….is it perhaps a bit too _demanding_? What if he thinks I’m being rude?

 **20.57**    _Please._

 **20.58** _Thanks._

 **20.59** _:)_

 **21.00**    Ha. This is actually really easy – any fool can sext.

 **21.01** _I’m going to get myself ready for you. I’m jerking myself off RIGHT NOW, imagining that it’s you._

 **21.02** Not that I really could be doing that and texting at the same time (ugh). Perhaps I should clarify? Should I clarify?

 **21.03**    _At least I will be as soon as I put my phone down_.

 **21.04** Better.

 **21.05** _Oh my God I’m so turned on thinking about you_. _I want you to rip my clothes off and fuck me over the kitchen table_.

 **21.06** Wheeeeee, look at me, sexting like a goddamn BOSS.

 **21.07** _I am the goddamn BOSS of sexting._

 **21.08**    Hmmm. On reflection perhaps I shouldn’t have sent that last one as it might be considered a bit vain. Although as I always say: if you can’t praise yourself who can you praise? Anyway, it’s not like H is in _any_ position to lecture me about the perils of excess vanity. H calling someone else vain is like the pot calling the kettle a narcissistic egomaniacal asshole. In fact, in addition to praising yourself, I have often observed that it is also a good idea to enthusiastically pat your own back and vigorously blow your own trumpet.

 **21.10** _Come and blow my trumpet._

 **21.11** Oh dear, no, this is getting out of control. I’ve gone too far…I may have gone too far in a few places. H is probably now having to break off from murdering someone by saying “Kindly excuse me for a moment would you? My live-in lover is sending me a series of bizarre sexts concerning brass orchestral instruments. I suspect he is having a nervous breakdown.”

 **21.12**    Okay, let’s get this sexting show back on the road! Boom!

 **21.13** _I love you so much it has given me a supernaturally massive erection, oh my actual God. Come home right now and be greeted by the power of love and murder boners._

 **21.14** I feel as if that last one was particularly impressive. It was, like, metaphysical and shit like that.

 **21.15** _I_ _AM SO HOT FOR YOU._ _I need a doctor. I am in urgent need of medical attention. I Have Got the Feeling I Need Sexual Healing._

 **21.30** _Immediately stop whatever maniacal thing you’re currently doing and come home and fuck me blind._

 **21.32** _Please._

 **21.40** _You are a sexy bastard. Although sometimes just a bastard._

 **21.45** _But sexy._

 **21.46** _Sex!_

 **21.50** _:p_

 **21.51** _This is me right now: 8D_

 **21.52** _Do you see what I did there? How I’ve made it look like it’s wearing glasses?_

 **21.53** _8p_

 **21.54** _And curly hair! @8p_

 **21.55** _Oh my God I’m a genius. A sex genius._

 **21.56** _Do you see what I did?_

 **21.57** _Do you get it?_

 **21.58** _Respond with the word ‘sex’ if you get it._

 **22.10**    H has finally replied, the lazy old shit: _Good evening my love. Apologies for leaving you for so long; I’m afraid I’ve been delayed but should be home within the next hour._ Hmmm: ‘been delayed.’ That means he’s met someone unexpectedly and decided to murder them – mark my words.

 **22.11**     _Come back home this instant and murder my massive erection._

 **22.14**     H has just texted again: _How have you been today? Please get in touch when you can._ Is he having a senior moment? What does he mean ‘get in touch when you can?’ I’ve been getting in constant touch for the past hour.

 **22.17** ‘Constant touch.’ Arf.

 **22.18** Unless…?

 **22.19** No!

 **22.20**    OH HOLY SHITTING BUGGERING BASTARD FUCK! I have sent all my amazing sexts to the wrong person.

 **22.21** Why God, why?

 **22.22** Whyyyyyyy?

 **22.25** I actually can’t bear the idea of looking at my phone and discovering who the unfortunate recipient was.

 **22.26** What if it was my dad?

 **22.27** What if it was JACK?

 **22.40** Just forced myself to look. It was Hieronomo. I suppose it could have been worse…although admittedly not much worse.

 **23.00** H arrived home and gave me a sentimental kiss on the forehead then kept asking me what I’d been doing with myself all day, but I was so mortified by the drunken sexting that I’d lost the power of speech and ended up having to pretend to be asleep. Although in retrospect this was definitely a good thing, because there is _no_ _possible way_ of telling H that I inadvertently asked Hieronomo to come round and fuck me over the kitchen table without him losing his shit and going out again to burn the deli down then roasting Hieronomo in the ashes.

**Wednesday**

Badly hungover this morning. H making it worse by being massively condescending about the fact I’d drunk all his expensive wine.  As self-defence I referred to him as my boyfriend just to piss him off (my exact words were: “You may be the FBI’s Most Wanted, but I hope you also realize that you are the boyfriend from hell”). It worked. The expression on his face was brilliant – ‘appalled’ doesn’t even come close. In fact he looked like JC did when he got the Miriam Lass voicemails.

 _Note to self._ Just realized that I can’t refer to Jack as JC, because this is a commonly accepted abbreviation for Jesus Christ and if anyone ever does find this diary then they’ll think I’ve been having a series of demented religious revelations.

 **13.00** The whole boyfriend experiment was so successful that I am now compiling a suitable list of other inappropriate references with which to annoy H. So far I have come up with ‘other half’, ‘life partner,’ ‘bae,’ ‘boo,’ and ‘hubby.’ Have considered, but ultimately rejected, ‘better half’ because _I_ am clearly the better half. Although I’m not sure I’ll be able to say “this is my hubby” without laughing.

 **13.10** Just practiced in mirror. Was not successful.

 **13.11** Also tried saying “this is my old man” like English people do, but was likewise unable to manage it without laughing (even though it is technically correct).

 **13.20** It’s much easier to say “this is my life partner” because it lends itself to extreme seriousness. It is the sort of thing hippies say. When introducing someone as your life partner you have to look very intense and solemn, and preferably place your hand on their shoulder in a solicitous way.

 **13.30**    Although technically H is also my partner-in-crime as well as life partner and sexual partner. This seems an excessive amount of partnership for one person. This is typical of H – he always over-does everything.

 **13.45**    Just asked H whether he is best considered as my partner in crime, life or sexual activities. He said he was all three: “ _obviously_.” Then he looked smug.

 **13.47**    Although if we had sex whilst committing crimes for the rest of our lives then this would mean we were a weird amalgam of lifetime crime sex partners. I patiently explained all of this to H, despite the fact he had blatantly stopped paying attention.

Eventually I said: “You’re not listening to me are you?”

H opened his mouth to lie about it but then obviously decided he couldn’t be bothered after all and admitted that he had, in fact, been mentally strolling around the Etruscan collection at The Louvre and consequently had not heard a single word.

H is such a dick sometimes so I felt it was only fair to inform him that he could represent his country for unrepentant dickishness at an Olympic level. Well, he heard _that_ just fine, because he gave me one of his highly annoying supercilious looks. Then he threw his book at me (although I caught it and threw it back, so technically victory was mine).

The moral of all this is that H has got irritatingly selective listening down to a fine art. Although in spite of this I am still extremely happy that he is my life crime sex partner.

 **15.00** Oh God, whoever said ‘time heals all wounds’ was full of shit because I’m still completely consumed with mortification over the fact I spent all last night sexting Hieronomo. Adding to my misery is the strong suspicion that he’s the type of person who customises their contact list with photographs – which, if true, means he’s currently in possession of a cell phone with a picture of me (no doubt pulled off the internet and looking highly serious in an FBI uniform) accompanied by several earnest requests to blow my trumpet, murder my erection, then fuck me over the kitchen table.

 **16.00** Oh shitting hell and balls: I just went into the kitchen and Hieronomo was there with another crateful of overpriced maniac food then proceeded to keep winking at me the _entire time_. H must never know or he will murder him to death. Which would be bad for Hieronomo but far worse for me, because it would mean I’d have ‘inadvertent death by sexting’ on my conscience for the rest of my life.

 **19.00** Seeing Hieronomo made me feel slightly sad on behalf of the misdirected sexts (languishing all on their own in the wrong phone), so I ended up forwarding them onto H. The result was highly favorable. In fact I may not be able to walk straight for a few days, although this isn’t necessarily a bad thing as I’m too afraid to go out in case Hieronomo winks at me and H sees it and then murders him to death.

 **23.30**    Just remembered my Evil Baby Hypothesis, so woke up H to ask him if he’s got any baby photographs of himself but he says he hasn’t. Then he gave a long-suffering sigh and rolled over and went back to sleep again. Huh. This means the Evil Baby Hypothesis is destined to remain untested. No doubt he burnt all the photos along with the rest of the incriminating evidence the last time he got arrested.

 

**Thursday**

**09.00**     H has entered some kind of Memory Palace coma and is refusing to come downstairs so out of boredom I was reduced to flicking through _Cosmopolitan_ again. Needless to say I erred on the side of caution this time and avoided anything that could be construed as relationship advice. I did a quiz called ‘ _How To Tell If He’s Your Boyfriend!’_ instead.

  1. _He plans real dates_. I‘m not sure about this. Do crime scenes count as dates?
  2. _He leaves his belongings round at your place._ Again, this is open to interpretation. Do other people’s body parts count as belongings?
  3. _He plans surprises for you._ Christ, does he ever.
  4. _He comes over when you’re sick_. Yes, but only to make you draw a clock and ensure his enormously manipulative scheme to fuck you up is proceeding on schedule.
  5. _He shows you his vulnerable side._ I suppose so. Even though you wish he hadn’t bothered, because H’s vulnerable side has a tendency to stand in its kitchen looking sad before it tries to murder you.
  6. _You bond over your shared interests._ Yes. Oh my fucking God.
  7. _He wants to know everything about you._ _Cosmopolitan,_ you have NO IDEA.
  8. _You are always the focus of his attention._ See answer to question 7.
  9. _He talks about your future._ Yes, although only in incredibly convoluted metaphors. Then he will sit in a glass box for three years and look smug while waiting for it to come true.
  10. _His friends Facebook you_. This one’s a no because H doesn’t actually have friends. The only thing H has are stalkers, mortal enemies, bounty hunters, body parts and a Rodelex of recipe cards – and these things are not generally renowned for their social media skills.
  11. _He is a shoulder to cry on._ Sort of. Although admittedly he’s usually the one who made you cry in the first place…the big bastard.
  12. _He does things for you he wouldn’t do for anyone else_. Well he didn’t murder me, so I suppose yes.
  13. _His plans usually revolve around you._ It depends what you mean by plans. If you mean ‘evil master plans’ then – hell yes.
  14. _He gets upset if he doesn’t hear from you all day_. Yes. And then he will turn up out of nowhere in a big fuck-off Bentley and stalk you into submission.
  15. _He actively wants to meet your friends or family_. Yes, but only because it makes it easier to murder them.



Hmmm, 14 out of 15…interesting. According to _Cosmopolitan_ , it would seem that H has actually been my boyfriend for several years.

 **10.30** Still feeling a bit confused over the _Cosmopolitan_ revelation, although this is hardly my fault as it's not every day you discover that you've had a boyfriend since 2013 without even realising it. It’s also further evidence that Freddie Lounds is a clueless hack who always exaggerated everything – even if that’s admittedly quite a good thing in this case, as ‘Murder Boyfriends’ definitely doesn't have the same ring to it. It sounds like a crap black metal band who meet up and practice in their parents’ garage until their amp blows up halfway through.

 **11.00**     Just dropped my _Cosmopolitan_ bombshell on H and informed him that he has apparently been my boyfriend since 2013. Unlike me, H was not remotely surprised about this information. In fact he just raised his eyebrows and gave me his favorite ‘well yes, _obviously_ ’ expression.

 **14.00**    The Accidental Boyfriend has just informed me that he thinks I’ve been indoors for too long so forced me to come into the village with him, which I agreed to do despite the fact it’s hotter than hell outside. In this respect H was wearing sunglasses and a short-sleeved shirt and looking very suave – although the problem with this is that he _knows_ he looks suave and from my point of view therefore stops looking suave and just looks like a big narcissistic egomaniac instead. In fact you could totally tell that the word “SWAG!” was going round his head on a mental loop. Although there were a group of tourists in the high street who were very appreciative of suave egomaniacs because they were staring at H with blatantly amorous intentions: no doubt the word “SWAG!” was going round _their_ heads on a mental loop as well. H obviously thought so because he gave a massive smirk, at which point they started grinning and fluttering their eyelashes at him. Honestly he’s so embarrassing, I can’t take him anywhere.

We went round the edge of the village square and then unfortunately ran into Hieronomo. #Awkward. He started shrieking “Signor Guglielmo!” as soon as he saw me then lunged across the street in my direction like one of those mutant pigs. H immediately looked pissed off – he doesn’t like people calling me ‘William’, because that’s what he always calls me when he’s annoyed with me and doesn’t think that anyone else should be allowed to do it. “I hope you have not misdirected any more of your delightful messages,” Hieronomo added. “Although if you do, please misdirect them to me.” Then he winked again. H looked ready to spontaneously combust. Oh God, there’s no helping some people – they are simply determined to get themselves murdered to death.

 **17.00** Made H promise not to murder Hieronomo because of the sexts. It took a lot of doing.

 **17.15** H sulking at being denied an opportunity to murder someone.

 **17.20** I told H that if he murders Hieronomo I will never have sex with him again (H, not Hieronomo).

 **17.22** Not quite sure why I felt the need to clarify that last part, as even I would draw the line at having sex with a murdered corpse. Moral: pronouns are both hazardous and annoying.

 **17.30** H has just stood over me with his arms folded and made me write ‘ _Get drunk and send sexts to local tradespeople_ ’ on the Things We Do That Are Annoying And Must Stop Doing list; which I agreed to, as long as he added ‘ _Ostentatiously flaunt one’s swag in front of the tourists_ ’ to it as well.

 **17.40**     H is now sitting at the kitchen table looking hard done by because he’s not allowed to murder Hieronomo. He is totally overdoing it. In fact he’s wearing an expression of nobly resigned suffering that would be more suitable for a martyr tied to a stake.

 **18.00** A bunch of flowers left on the villa steps! Clearly Hieronomo, hoping for a repeat of the sexting. I threw them over the wall into the next villa before H could see them.

 **18.05** Neighbors just threw the flowers back over the wall. Ungrateful bastards. I buried them in the back garden instead (the flowers, not the neighbors).

 **18.10** Why did I do this? Why not just put them in the trash?

 **18.11** Does this mean I have a subconscious fixation with burying things?

 **18.12** Oh God, I’ve got a subconscious fixation with burying things. Maybe I should see a therapist? I probably should see a therapist. Not least because it’s actually been quite selfish of me to deprive the forensic pathology community of the opportunity to use me as a case study for all these years. May try and persuade H to unselfishly donate himself to the forensic pathology community also.

 **18.30**    Went upstairs to find H, who had shifted his epic sulking from the kitchen to the bedroom. I asked him if he was going to follow my selflessly public-spirited example and donate himself to the forensic pathology community as well? He said no.

 **18.45** Just made an extremely half-hearted attempt to cook something for dinner. I tried to get H to help me but he was too busy dramatically flopping himself across the bed because I won’t let him murder Hieronomo.  

 **19.00** Oh Christ, now the neighbors have come round to yell at me in Italian for throwing flowers into their garden. At least I _think_ that’s what they were doing. In this respect it’s actually quite entertaining being told off in a foreign language because you can invent your own reasons for the aforesaid telling off. I spent the whole time imagining they were shouting at me for being a massive badass and making them look feeble and useless in comparison. Anyway they were totally overreacting because anyone would think I’d been shovelling shit over the wall as opposed to lobbing a bunch of flowers from the local sex pest.

 **19.10** H has just come downstairs and asked what all the noise was about. The neighbors will never know how lucky they were to miss him and that they inadvertently came extremely close to being murdered to death.

I told H that it was just the couple in the next villa acting like a bag of dicks. Unfortunately H is so pretentious and rarefied that he hadn’t heard this expression before and didn’t know what it meant. I laughed so hard I was at a real risk of stress-induced incontinence, because I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so hysterically funny as Dr Hannibal Lecter – scourge of the FBI, terror of the Western World – standing there looking confused and repeating “A bag of what Will? A bag of _dicks_?”

**Friday**

Woke up last night to hear a drunken Hieronomo serenading me under the window in Italian! I had to forcibly restrain H from going outside to murder him to death (I achieved this by sitting on H’s chest and refusing to get off). H said that if I didn’t get off him and let him dispose of Hieronomo then _he_ will never have sex with _me_ again. Stalemate! Although it ultimately turned out that H was being a big bullshitter (as per) because he was more than capable of pushing me off his chest all by himself so withholding sexual favors was actually irrelevant to the whole issue. As a last resort I had to pretend to fall off the bed and hit my head, because I know that H always feels guilty at the idea of hurting me (this is an example of ‘better late than never’) and therefore wouldn’t be able to bring himself to go out murdering while his other, better half was unconscious/dead on the bedroom floor. Mission accomplished.

Once it was clear that H was not going to murder Hieronomo then I staged a miraculous recovery, at which point H looked a bit pissed off because he realized he had clearly been bullshitted. Although he had absolutely no right to be annoyed on the grounds that he will take any opportunity to shamelessly bullshit himself, including innocent bystanders, inanimate objects and non-human mammals. In fact if it moves (or, alternatively, stays still long enough) then H will bullshit it. So it completely served H right to have a taste of his own bullshitting medicine and if anything he should have been thanking me for showing him the error of his bullshitting ways.

Nevertheless this still left the problem of Hieronomo wailing underneath our bedroom window and having to find a way of getting rid of him that did not involve either bullshit or reckless homicide. As a compromise I suggested having extremely noisy sex so that Hieronomo would hear it through the open window and realize that I’m spoken for, and hence no amount of drunken singing will be sufficient to make him a recipient of further Graham sexts. H agreed this to be an excellent plan. H is incredibly good at sex so it was very easy to make a huge amount of noise, at which point the singing abruptly cut off – this is what is known as A Good Result. The problem was that I overdid it a bit (a lot)…but this was not my fault, because my reasoning was that the sooner Hieronomo understands that I will not be sexting him again, then the less likely it is that he’ll be murdered and therefore the less likely it is that I’ll have ‘death by sexting’ on my conscience for the rest of my life. This is just logical. Anyway, I overdid it for reasons pertaining to logic and the net result was that it sounded like we were playing some kind of orgiastic porn DVD – which would have been okay, expect that once the thought had occurred to me I couldn’t stop thinking it, which meant I started laughing, which meant all orgiastic porn noises immediately ended (because it is not possible to make ecstatic porn noises while laughing hysterically – this is also just logical).

H looked highly irritated, which I suppose is fair enough because if you’re sexually servicing someone to the best of your ability then it’s not particularly gratifying if they start cackling with laughter halfway through. Anyway, things then got even worse because as soon as I stopped making Orgiastic Anti-Murder Porn Noises then the singing started again – this time with a soulful rendition of _My Heart Will Go On_.

Even I lost my temper then (because – Celine Dion), so ended up leaping off of H and out the bed, then leaning through the window and shouting at Hieronomo to fuck off. Unfortunately I forgot I was naked and that all Hieronomo was probably aware of was me stood there with no clothes on, mad sex hair and brandishing the remains of an erection in his direction while yelling ‘fuck’ – which technically might count as encouragement. At any rate that was how he interpreted it, because he started shouting “Signor Guglielmo! Mio dio! Bello! Bello!” in a sort of frenzy, so I started bellowing even louder to try and drown him out; at which point H came leaping across the room like a goddamn Olympic long-jumper on murder steroids in order to drag me away. I kept trying to wriggle out from underneath his arm, but it was impossible because H has the strength of 10 maniacs when he is pissed off so in the end I just had to wait while he leaned out himself and shouted something in Italian. Whatever he said was clearly more effective than my effort because the singing has now stopped.

On reflection, I have agreed that H may murder Hieronomo to death with my full endorsement and blessing.

 

**Saturday**

H has changed his mind about murdering Hieronomo! He’s realized it means the delicatessen would close. What a total hypocrite. I told him how delighted I was that my honor was less important to him than a load of stinking salamis, mouldy cheese and overpriced wine (which if I hadn’t had access to then I’d never have drunk sexted in the first place – which is also logical). H just looked smug. He has pointed out that I’m in no position to take the moral high ground, having just spent the last two days threatening to withhold sexual favors on the grounds of Hieronomo not getting murdered, so why am I complaining now that the murder plans have officially been abandoned? I told H that his version of the moral high ground is lower than a worm cemetery. H was not impressed by my brilliant analogy.

Am not speaking to H

Now H is not speaking to me.

No one is speaking.

May murder Hieronomo myself. No one could say that the stupid bastard didn’t have it coming.

 **16.00** Have just spent a highly productive and calming 30 minutes imagining how I might murder Hieronomo. For reasons of poetic justice it really ought to somehow involve a cell phone.

 **17.45** H is now standing at the bottom of the stairs yelling “Will!” I temporarily forgot that I was ignoring him and shouted back “What?” at which point he went “Will!” again. This is typical – he won’t actually say what he wants (or get his lazy old ass up the stairs and talk to me in person) but just expects me to go to him. Well he can fuck off. There is no way I’m going to crack first.

 **18.00**    I cracked first. It wasn’t my fault though, because the owner of the villa came round and knocked on the door to ask if everything was all right (no doubt because the repeated strains of “Will”, “What?” “Will!” “What?” “WILL!” “WHAT?” were echoing round the village like an American/Lithuanian sonic boom).

I went into the kitchen and said: “What?”

Signor Bianchi kept gesturing anxiously from one of us to the other and saying “There is a problem? There is a problem here gentlemen?”

Me and H replied “No, there is no problem,” in perfect unison. This was obviously a massive lie but it sounded extremely convincing because if H is the Emperor of bullshitting I’m still the Archduke and Chief Ambassador. H then put his hand on my shoulder to indicate the complete absence of all things problematic – I was quite tempted to shake it off but in the end decided not to because he would have just put it back again, and I would have shrugged it off, and then there would probably have been a fight and Signor Bianchi might have inadvertently got dragged into it and ended up getting murdered.

Signor Bianchi cheered up then and started gushing at us in Italian. I don’t know what he was saying but he sounded very enthusiastic. H provided a brief translation: apparently it was something along the lines of what good tenants we are and how nice it is to have respectable people after all the reprobate tourists he usually gets. I observed in an undertone to H that “if only he knew.” Me and H then proceeded to cackle with socially inappropriate laughter. Signor Bianchi looked confused, so H started speaking charming bullshit to him in Italian.

After our deluded landlord had left I asked H what he wanted but he couldn’t remember any more, so all in all it was a bit pointless. H looked very dashing and I was about to initiate sexual activities over the kitchen table before remembering that I am officially still angry with him so unfortunately had to go to bed instead and leave him downstairs, because it is a Matter Of Principle. Was quite tempted to consult _Cosmopolitan_ about how to organize ‘Making Up With Your Man,’ but ultimately decided not to on the grounds that whatever they advise will only make it worse.

**Sunday**

H has finally cracked and said that of course my honor is more important to him than a load of prosciutto and focaccia and that if I really want him to murder Hieronomo then he will. He then added “And if it will bring your current epic sulk to a premature close than that will be an additional bonus.”

“I am not _sulking_ ,” I said.

H just gave me his favorite ‘ _My dear Will, we both know that’s complete bullshit’_ smirk (I say his favorite because he actually has a whole collection of them adapted for every conceivable occasion).

“I’m _not_ ,” I said.

H was still smirking, so for revenge I added: “And as of now I’m withholding _all_ sexual favors, considering that you’re willing to get your stuffed olives and fois gras from someone who wants to fuck me over the kitchen table.”

Now H looks like he’s about to cry.

 **11.00** H is now desperate to murder Hieronomo again and I keep refusing him permission.  This is what is known as ‘ironic.’

 **12.00** The only problem with withholding sexual favors is that you end up having to withhold them from yourself as well. This is all _Cosmopolitan’s_ fault. I should never have listened to their shitty advice.

 **12.03** Told H I am prepared to negotiate around the distribution of sexual favors.

 **13.30** The distribution of sexual favors has been successfully negotiated: I’ll definitely not be able to walk straight for several days. H is looking incredibly smug. I intend to deliberately fall asleep with my head on his chest in order to drool on him during the night as a form of passive aggressive revenge for all the smugness.

 **14.00** Just realized that – oh my God – I _still_ don’t know what H’s ‘big surprise’ is. I sincerely hope it doesn’t involve murder or sexual favors because I don’t think I can cope with any more of either of them.

 **14.15**    Have just informed H that he should call his autobiography _Murder and Sexual Favors_. H said he would think about it; in the sort of tone that meant he had thought about it and thought it was shit.

I wonder what I should call my autobiography? I could probably call it _Murder and Sexual Favors Volume II._

 **15.30** Another angry person has just turned up in the garden! At first I thought it was the neighbors come back to have another go about the flowers, but it turned out to be a weird little man with a huge beard (seriously, it’s length and girth defied description) who was there to tell me off for breaking Hiernomo’s heart and driving him to the Edge of Despair with my misdirected sexts. I kept trying to interrupt and point out that it was hardly my fault if Hiernomo was a thwarted stalker as well as a creepy sex pest, and that anyone in their right mind would realize that I’d hardly ask him to come and blow my trumpet before fucking me over the kitchen table unless I was roaring drunk; not to mention the small fact that the sexts were _clearly_ not meant for him as opposed to my Other Half (who by the way is a massive badass and will murder you and your repulsive beard to death if you don’t fuck off). I needn’t have bothered though because he wouldn’t let me get a word in edgeways, or sideways, or any goddamn ways because he was too determined to keep lecturing me about Hiernomo’s Epic Grief until I started losing the will to live (and I have to put up with H’s lecturing on a daily basis, so I consider my boredom threshold for pompous lectures to be freakishly high).

Eventually even he realized he wasn’t getting anywhere so announced his intention to write to me instead. “Oh yes, by all means email me,” I said politely. “My address is WhyDon’tYouKissMyAss@IDon’tGiveAShit.com.” He actually started writing this down before realising that it is not, in fact, my real email address. Then he went bright red with rage. Fortunately H was nearby (basking in the sun and radiating murder vibes) so he quickly realized that there was fuck all he could do about it and he and his beard ran out the garden instead. I waved them both off, even though they didn’t really deserve such a civil gesture because although their accent was a bit indecipherable I’m about 94% certain that they called me a “cold hearted cock tease” – and calling someone a cold hearted cock tease in their own front garden just because they can’t operate their cell phone while drunk is incredibly out of order by general standards.

Bizarrely, I’ve also just realized that the bearded minion never explained who he actually was. My best guess is one of the following: Hiernomo’s (1) husband, (2) lover, (3) concerned relative, (4) psychiatric nurse, or (5) parole officer.

Speaking of lovers and parole officers, I generally think it’s a good policy to give credit where credit’s due so after he’d left I made a point of congratulating H on being able to exude such effective murder vibes despite not doing anything beyond lying in the sun like a big lizard and looking malevolent. H cracked open his eyes and confessed that he hadn’t actually been listening to the conversation and that it is far too hot to murder anyone. However I don’t believe this for a moment and have no doubt at all that H could murder people during floods, hurricanes, Biblical plagues of locusts, the zombie apocalypse and assorted disasters of land, air and sea if the situation demanded it. In fact saying it’s too hot to murder anyone is probably just H’s idea of being modest.

 **18.00** In spite of myself I can’t help feeling a _tiny_ bit guilty about Hiernomo’s Epic Grief, so went to find H in order to get some reassurance that I am not, in fact, a cold hearted cock tease. Needless to say this did not go to plan: H thought about it for a while and then said that from his perspective he would probably have to agree on the grounds that I nearly drove him to distraction over the course of several years with my relentlessly cold hearted cock teasing. I replied that in my defence it is not unreasonable to cold heartedly cock tease someone after they have made several elaborate attempts to kill you and then deviously serve your dismembered bits to your colleagues at a pretentious dinner party. H grudgingly agreed that I might have a point.

 **18.30** In retrospect, perhaps H and Hiernomo could call a truce by drowning their sorrows together over the respective psychological wounds I have inflicted on them both courtesy of cold hearted cock teasing. It could be like a form of co-counselling. They could call themselves The CHCT Support Group. Or, alternatively, Survivors of Will Graham’s Cold Hearted Cock.

Not that Hiernomo would find it all that consoling, considering that H’s recovery prospects are substantially better than his. Apart from when I’m withholding sexual favors of course…which admittedly I have a certain tendency to do.

 **18.35**    Oh God, I’m a terrible person aren’t I? A TERRIBLE COLD HEARTED COCK TEASING ABOMINATION.

 **18.40**    Oh well. Never mind.

 **20.30** First official week of diary keeping is now over! Apart from one or two setbacks, an extremely successful seven days. Being on the run from the US Government is far easier than all those Hollywood movies would have you believe.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aww you guys! Huge thanks to everyone who’s left feedback and kudos on this demented thing. I really wasn’t expecting such a positive response, so please accept an extra-long update as a sign of my appreciation! A big hug also to ElectraRhodes, without whose encouragement I would have put off posting chapter 1 for even longer than I already did :-)

**Monday**

I came downstairs this morning to find a dog sat in the garden with a dramatically mournful expression on its face. I admit that I got rather over-excited to be in the vicinity of a dog again after so long and promptly expressed my intention to hang out with it. At this point the dog cheered up hugely, which could mean that it’s a particularly friendly beast or alternatively that it’s enormously manipulative and was trying to get me exactly where it wanted me. But regardless of its motivation its attempt was still 100% successful, because as soon as H came down I loudly announced my desire to adopt it. H looked pained but he didn’t actually say no.

As a bonding exercise I suggested that H and I come up with a name for the dog together. He kept refusing at first on the grounds of having precisely zero interest but I eventually managed to change his mind (I accomplished this by swinging on his arm like a maniac while repeating ‘think of a name for the goddamn dog’).

H kept giving long-suffering sighs while I was swinging on his arm but eventually agreed then even gave the dog a tentative stroke as an extra goodwill gesture. The dog instantly went nuts with delight as if it thought H was its long-lost brother before collapsing at his feet and gazing up at him in a besotted way. It was clearly trying to win him over in the same way it had me, which seemed like a good time to point out to H that the two of them are destined to get along very well on the basis of both being enormously manipulative.

_H’s suggestions to name the dog_

  1. Dante
  2. Calega
  3. Leonardo



_My suggestions to name the dog_

  1. The Dude
  2. Badass McToughcop
  3. Jack Crawford



The only thing more vigorous than my opposition to H’s suggestions were his objections to mine, so it looks as if the dog is destined to remain nameless. To be honest I would probably have just called him something like Winston or Baxter but the opportunity of forcing H to stand in the middle of the village square shouting ‘Badass McToughcop’ or ‘Jack Crawford’ is too good to pass up.

 **13.00**     After several hours in residence The Dog With No Name has already knocked over a vase with its tail, left paw prints on the sofa, then chewed up one of H’s priceless Italian leather shoes before collapsing on our bed and drooling contentedly all over the pillows. H began rolling his eyes at this point and strongly hinting that he would derive a massive amount of pleasure from the absence of both me and the dog, so I decided to take it for a walk in the village. I didn’t have a proper leash so had to improvise using one of H’s ties (which I hadn’t realized until then that he actually had, although was not remotely surprised by because only H would bother taking ties to a sweltering hot Mediterranean country while on the run from numerous law enforcement agencies). And let’s just say it’s extremely fortunate that I did, because we met another dog on the way there and The Dog With No Name immediately came over all homicidal and would definitely have murdered it to death if I hadn’t pulled on his tie to keep him away. In this respect it’s clear that he’s already been hanging around H for too long.

I told the dog that just for once it would be nice to have something in my life that wasn’t highly murderous and could it please get its shit together? The dog immediately got a rather cunning expression on its face before changing its mind and looking sad instead then trying to win me over again by wagging its tail and licking my hands. I’d like to say that I refused to fall for this obvious bullshitting ploy, but of course I would be lying and promptly forgave the dog for its attempted murder of an elderly Italian lady’s miniature poodle (and, given half the chance, the elderly Italian lady as well). In this respect it seems very likely that H spent this morning training it behind my back.

 **13.15**     Huh. Unfortunately the walk to the village turned out to be a huge mistake because me and the murder dog had only got as far as the square when we were immediately set upon by a pair of tourists who descended on us both and claimed to be its actual owners. They were obviously pretty happy to have found it again because they flung themselves over it and started wailing with joy while covering its hairy face in kisses. To be honest I felt pretty embarrassed for them (which is really saying something because I’m the person who once stood on top of a building in my underwear so my tolerance for public mortification is extremely high). There wasn’t anything much I could do about it though, so I decided to leave them to it and said a discreet goodbye to the dog of homicide and manipulation before walking off – at which point a new achievement level for public mortification was unlocked because its owners immediately started following behind me yelling loud recriminations for being a heartless dog-stealing bastard.

I came back again and announced that I did _not_ steal the dog and had instead found it being manipulative in my front garden but they just started pursing their lips at me in a blatant ‘yeah _right,_ a likely story’ expression. I went on to explain that the dog had been there for hours, upon which their expressions morphed into: ‘yeah _right_ – just the kind of bullshit story we’d expect from a dog-stealing bastard like you.’ Then they demanded to know where I lived, but I didn’t dare tell them because of the risk of them turning up unexpectedly and getting murdered to death by H. Instead I gave them an impressively severe lecture about the importance of responsible dog ownership (including, but not limited to, keeping the beast on a leash at all times) rather than making baseless accusations of theft towards selfless dog saving strangers (including, but not limited to, the legal penalties of verbal slander). Then I walked off in a deliberately dignified and imposing display of Fidelity Bravery and Integrity – although it wasn’t particularly successful, because I immediately heard one of them talking into their cell phone and telling the person on the other end that their dog had been stolen by a bad-tempered American with a hipster beard.

 **13.30**    H asked me why I was dogless again when I got back to villa so I was forced to explain about the tourists and the canine theft charge. H rolled his eyes and said next time I should consider being a little less zealous in recruiting beneficiaries for my Dog Adoption Agency (he actually said that: ‘over zealous’. Why can’t he just tell me to stop being a dick, like a normal person?). I still pretended I was listening for the sake of politeness, although I’m not sure how convincing it was because it’s actually pretty hard to concentrate on a lecture about stealing other people’s dogs when ‘ _you’ve got a hipster beard_ … _you’ve got a hipster beard_ …’ is going round your head on a permanent loop.

 **22.50** Oh God, just when I thought today couldn’t get any worse the proverbial shit has firmly hit the proverbial fan. Hostile action has been taken against us and _someone_ (i.e., Hieronomo) woke us up in the middle of the night by playing that demented _Numa Numa_ song at mega volume right outside our bedroom window. The only previous awareness I had of this ungodly abomination was as the subject of a notorious internet meme so needless to say it was highly disconcerting to have it blasting out my front garden at many decibels. The lack of sexts has obviously driven Hieronomo to desperate measures and he’s now trying to torture us with Europop. H completely insane with rage. He leapt out of bed and ran downstairs at high speed, determined to murder Hieronomo.

 **22.55** H also determined to murder Europop.

 **23.01** H determined to murder everyone (situation normal).

 **23.02** I gamely ran downstairs after H to assist with any murdering that might have to be done.

 **23.03** Forgot that I was naked so was forced to run back upstairs to get dressed. In my experience it’s usually better to be wearing clothes whilst murdering in case the police turn up halfway through.

 **23.04** Shouted downstairs to H to make sure he’s also dressed.

 **23.05** H is dressed. In retrospect I should have taken into account that he is an expert at all things murder-related, so wouldn’t make a novice error like trying to murder Europop while naked.

 **23.06** Lights turning on all round the other villas. Dogs barking. Babies crying. Europop blaring.

 **23.07** The neighbors are shouting horrible things at us because of all the Europop. H is calming them down in Italian. I don’t really know why he’s bothering though, seeing as he’ll almost certainly have murdered them all by the end of the year anyway.

 **23.08** Europop is still playing at high volume. Neighbors are hysterical. I know I should go downstairs and try to help but it’s actually far more fun to be a spectator. In fact the only thing missing was popcorn. Although I’m not a total traitor, so I can guarantee that I was still 100% rooting for H to be victorious vs. the neighbors and _Numa Numa_.

 **23.09** H has smashed Hieronomo’s ancient CD player with a big fuck-off stone from the rockery. I don’t know why he didn’t just turn it off? Talk about over-reacting.

 **23.10** The neighbors all gave H a round of applause for murdering the Europop so effectively, which meant I felt obliged to lean out the window and give him a round of applause as well. Then I shouted “Bravo!” and threw some Euros into the rockery. H gave me a slightly evil look because he knows I am blatantly taking the piss.

 **23.15** H has now invited the neighbors into the kitchen for a nightcap and is speaking charming bullshit to them in Italian. I wonder how he’s going to explain the Europop? Somehow I don’t think ‘my boyfriend-since-2013 is being stalked by the delicatessen owner after a series of misdirected sexts’ would go down very well. Although maybe the neighbors are all sexually deviant so would approve of this story?

 **23.30** Too embarrassed to go downstairs now in case H has told them about the sexting.

 **23.31** What is ‘sexting’ in Italian? Asked Google Translate but it won’t tell me.

 **23.32** I bet he _has_ told them about the sexting. If I go into the kitchen now they’ll probably all give me a round of applause for being a sexual deviant, then H can get his revenge by throwing some Euros at me and shouting “Bravo!”

 **23.45** Can’t sleep because of all the Italian. I’m tempted to text H and ask him to throw them out, only I’m paranoid about texting now for obvious reasons.

 **23.50**    Tried to get to sleep by counting sheep but was not successful.

 **23.55**    Tried to get to sleep by mentally composing a strongly-worded letter of complaint to _Cosmopolitan_ before sending the editor a big box with H inside. Slightly more promising strategy.

 **00.10** The neighbors are now drunkenly singing the chorus of _Numa Numa_. I wonder if H will murder them with rocks? Although knowing H he’s probably encouraged them to do it just to piss me off. In fact no doubt I’ll permanently be stalked from now on by drunken Italians that H has trained to sing _Numa Numa_ as a form of psychological torture.

 **00.15**    One of the neighbors has found _Numa Numa_ on the internet and is playing it at high volume, despite the fact they were all bitching about the exact same thing an hour ago and H had to murder it with a rock. This is what is known as ‘ironic.’

 **00.20**    They are still singing. Haven’t they got homes to go to?

 **00.25**    Right, I’m going to have to do something. I don’t even care if they all start singing ‘drunken sexts’ to the tune of _Numa Numa_ when I go into the kitchen.

 **00.30** H was sitting at the table looking superior with his shirt sleeves rolled up and talking to one of the more mature and respectable neighbors while the rest were drunkenly dancing and singing round the kitchen. One of them kept waving his arms in the air at the high notes and exposing an appalling expanse of stomach hair. It was a truly hideous sight: and I have seen some pretty hideous sights over the years, so I do not make this statement lightly.

 **00.35** The neighbors all spotted me at the same time and started shouting “Guglielmo!” like they were greeting a long lost relative and the only thing needed in their lives for perfect happiness was the sight of me walking into the kitchen. What a load of hypocrites. It’s not like they all came round for social reasons – they’re only here because the local sex pest was playing Europop in the middle of the night and H is a charming bullshitter. Speaking of which it was extremely obvious that all the neighbors were competing between themselves over which of them could suck up to H the most. Initially I found this a bit weird until I remembered that H can actually be enormously charismatic with people when he’s not murdering them.

 **00.40**    Punched my way through the crowd of drunken neighbors to get to the table then sat down next to H and whispered at him to throw them out, or murder them, or do _something_ , but I am going to die if I do not get some sleep. H pointed out in an obnoxious, exaggeratedly reasonable tone that we can’t simply go round murdering all our neighbors because it might alert the Attention of the Authorities. What a massive hypocrite – as if that ever stopped him before.

 **00.41** The man at the table is now earnestly explaining to H that everyone has got it wrong and that the abomination is really called _Dragostea Din Tei_ , and _Numa Numa_ is just the title of aforementioned notorious internet meme. H wasn’t even pretending to listen, which was unusual because H is generally highly skilled at bullshitting people into thinking he’s paying attention to them when he isn’t – this is how he was able to remain a respected psychiatrist for several years whilst murdering so many random individuals on the side.

 **00.45**    The neighbor is still rambling on about Europop. He thinks he’s having a serious conversation with H about European popular culture; what he doesn’t realize is that H is fantasising about his lightly seasoned head roasting in a _Le Crueset_ casserole dish.

 **00.50**     Just heard the neighbor with the poorly-concealed Europop fetish explain that despite a few ludicrous elements (i.e., the tune, the vocals and the lyrics: in other words, everything) _Numa Numa_ is actually about a song about unrequited love. Christ. Hieronomo clearly knows _nothing_ about stalking someone into being your boyfriend without them realizing it; he needs to have a word with H and get some tips about how much more effective it is to stand around in a long coat looking enigmatic before driving away in your big fuck-off Bentley to murder someone.

 **01.00**    I finally had a drink out of desperation. It’s a type of Italian liqueur that one of the neighbors brought round. It’s actually pretty good.

 **01.10** Suppose I could have another glass.

 **01.15**    Keep trying to tickle H’s legs under the table with my feet. H would die of mortification if anyone ever found out that he’s ticklish; he thinks it diminishes his status as an unassailable badass.

 **01.16** H is giving me one of his Death Stares to discourage the tickling. Ignored him.

 **01.20** Just put my foot in H’s groin and he nearly choked on his chianti. Amusing. May have another glass of liqueur.

 **01.30** Liqueur is really quite moreish.

 **02.00** Oh my GOD I’m so drunk.

 **02.10** Our neighbors are amazing. We are so lucky to have such fantastic neighbors. I love all of them, they are so amazing and fantastic. Even the one with all the stomach hair. They are so fantastically amazing, oh my actual God.

 **02.30**     H is amaaaaazing, I wish I hadn’t thrown him off a cliff. Wheeeeeee. H is a Sex Beast and the sexiest thing EVER. Numa Numa. Give me some HOT LOVING you big smouldering sexy pretentious maniac. Grrrr. Blegh.

 

**Tuesday**

May die of hangover

H is acting extremely smug. He swears blind that I spent all last night telling him how he was the most incredible being in the known universe and that I loved him more than I love fishing, the FBI and fixing boats combined. Allegedly I said “If there was a big fish in an FBI uniform that could fix boats then I would still love you more than that fucking fish.” I maintain that this is an outrageous lie.

 **10.30** Is it actually possible to die of hangover? H says not, but I might consult the internet to be on the safe side as H is a notorious bullshitter when it comes to my physical health. Encephalitis, anyone?

 **10.35** Dr Google says it’s not technically possible to die from hangover. Although I sort of wouldn’t mind dying as I feel so utterly shit. That Italian liqueur was like anthrax.

 **10.45** H is now claiming that I promised him I would do all the cleaning in the villa for the next fortnight as an apology for my inebriated sexting bringing the full force of Hieronomo, _Numa Numa_ , and the drunken neighbors upon us. I find it easier to accept that I told H I loved him more than a sentient boat-fixing fish than I am able to accept this.

 **11.00** I told H I was willing to barter housecleaning duties in exchange for sexual favors. He said he would think about it.

Although wouldn’t this mean I was essentially prostituting myself in exchange for H doing the housework? This seems morally dubious.

 **11.20** H also claims that I started loudly and publically begging his forgiveness for throwing him off a cliff, which meant he had some hasty explaining to do with the neighbors. Apparently he had to tell them that ‘throwing you off a cliff’ is an English euphemism for being an idiot towards someone. I was rather annoyed by this, although was still prepared to let it go as publically begging forgiveness for idiocy is more socially acceptable than admitting that I did _literally_ throw H off a cliff.

 **11.30** H is completely shit at being a doctor – no wonder he was struck off. His idea of administering first aid is to keep sticking his head round the bedroom door and recounting yet another anecdote of me doing something extremely embarrassing whilst drunk.

 **12.00** H has just stuck his head round the door again and done an impression of me from last night begging him to have sex with me. His American accent is actually pretty good although of course I will never admit this to him under pain of death, because the last thing H needs is encouragement.

 **12.10** At least H hasn’t told me that I joined in with the drunken neigbors to sing and dance along to _Numa Numa_ , as this would be _beyond_ embarrassing.

 **12.11**    Just heard H coming upstairs again. He has obviously remembered something else. Oh Christ.

 **12.15** H’s obnoxious head has just peered round the door to smugly inform me that while I didn’t actually sing and dance to _Numa Numa_ , I did improvise a percussion accompaniment using a pair of salad forks and a biscuit tin. According to H, Ringo Starr himself could not have played the drums with greater verve and dedication (although was at pains to add that considering I was accompanying a drunken rendition of _Numa Numa_ then this fact does me no credit at all). H says he was enormously mortified on my behalf but that I refused to put the salad forks down and started hitting him with them every time he tried to take them off me.

The basic moral of this story appears to be that H is the only one who walked out of the kitchen last night with his dignity still intact.

 **12.30** I’m now determined to get H absolutely hammered and make him do embarrassing things. Then we can have a mutual Drunk Armistice where we both agree to never mention the other one’s drunken indiscretions ever again.

 **12.45** I’ve just informed H’s head that if it doesn’t stop torturing me with drunken anecdotes then I will never, ever have sex with H’s body again. H’s head just smirked, probably because it knows that this is a massive lie.

 **15.30** I’m finally sufficiently recovered from Hangover Hell to rise up from my deathbed and go and shuffle about in the garden for a bit. Honestly, I’m starting to suspect the Italian liqueur was _literal_ anthrax. I haven’t felt this wrecked since I was stabbed in the head.

 **15.40**     Shuffled round the garden for a second time when I went past the screen door and saw H in the kitchen. This meant I felt compelled to do what I always do when this happens, which is to go and press my palm against the glass with an exaggeratedly sad expression on my face. I can’t actually remember what first inspired me to do it, only that it’s now become a regular routine and basically serves as my way of non-verbally informing H that: ‘you might be flaunting your swag all over Italy at the moment but don’t forget that I still knew you when you lived in a glass box.’ H’s response is likewise extremely predictable in that he starts rolling his eyes around like someone preparing to have a seizure but always comes over anyway and presses his own hand against mine (at which point we generally end up blowing kisses at each other like a pair of sentimental old bastards). You can tell he doesn’t really want to but it’s like he can’t stop himself – which to be honest I find extremely encouraging and am using as a working hypothesis that H’s Jedi Mind Powers are slowly becoming sexually transmitted in the same way as grandiosity.

Anyway, there I was reminding H of the glass box years while H was stood on the other side of the door earnestly mouthing romantic declarations in my direction (despite having an expression on his face that meant he was trying to work out why he loves me more than life itself when I’m constantly driving him to the edge of a nervous breakdown) when all of a sudden there was the sound of someone crooning “Bello! Bello!” in a distinctly sleazy undertone. Well of course _that_ could only mean one thing, and sure enough when I turned round it was to see none other than Hieronomo peering hopefully over the top of the fence like the official team mascot of creepy sex pests. This unexpected appearance of Hieronomo’s head meant I was immediately confronted with an interesting moral dilemma; namely in terms of whether I should (a) do the wrong thing, which would be to vault over the fence and take him out myself, or (b) the right thing which would be to yell ‘Run, you fucking fool! Don’t you realize that you’re about to get murdered to death?’ The result of the moral dilemma was that I didn’t actually do anything at all, although by that time it didn’t really matter anymore because he’d already got himself spotted by the FBI’s Most Wanted.

As expected H narrowed his eyes into little slits of malevolence before promptly activating Murder Mode and dashing out the house at high velocity in order to dismember Hieronomo. I was rather tempted to get YouTube up and give him the chorus from _St Elmo’s Fire_ as a musical accompaniment (‘ _Gonna be a man in motion, all I need is a pair of wheels_ …’) but H moves at the speed of light when he is murderous so the moment was lost and he’d already whizzed past me before I could even get my phone out my pocket. I should probably admit at this point that I was really quite looking forward to seeing Hieronomo getting Hannibal-ed, but sadly it was not to be because Hieronomo naturally responded in the only sane way you can when you see H charging towards you at Murder Warp Speed: which is to get back in your sex pestmobile and drive off as fast as it’ll carry you before you end up in a casserole dish.

Despite the fact Hieronomo had escaped being murdered H still came swaggering up the path again like someone who’d just scored an epic victory before putting his arms round me and giving me a possessive kiss on the head. I took this as a good opportunity to point out that while I appreciate him activating Murder Mode on my behalf, he seems to be forgetting that I’m _more_ than capable of murdering Hieronomo myself. Although I’m not sure how effective this was, because while H listened very patiently without interrupting you could clearly tell he was thinking: ‘Nice try, tiny murder apprentice, but let’s not forget who’s the FBI’s Most Wanted here – not to mention the small fact that while you were still your father’s spermatozoa in a boatyard, I was in a European forest taking out Nazis.’

In this respect it’s also very obvious that H wants to massacre Hieronomo himself rather than letting me do it because it’s his idea of an affectionate gesture, a bit like the way cats deposit bits of rodent on their owner’s carpet as a sign of devotion-by-murder.

 **18.00**     Oh God, I can’t stop thinking about H’s feline-inspired murder offerings. When taken to its logical conclusion the whole idea is rather ominous and means in years to come H may eventually devolve to the point of leaving mangled corpses at the bottom of the bed (then no doubt expect me to scratch him behind the ears afterwards and tell him what a good boy he is) and this doesn’t seem like a particularly suitable way to spend our retirement years.

 **19.00** All this has also reminded me that I STILL don’t know what H’s ‘big surprise’ is. I’m starting to think I might have to secretly practice simulating delight in response to a mangled corpse so as not to hurt his feelings.

**Wednesday**

H was being very boring this morning by insisting on reading out endless extracts from an article about art restoration. I still forced myself to feign polite interest and asked a few questions and H promptly activated his Wise Old Man mode in response (which is like a combination of Yoda and Mr Miyagi with a dash of maniac on the side). In fact all was well until he got to a section about the Florence floods and starting reminiscing about the time he had a gondola tour on the Arno.

“ _Which_ time?” I said beadily; at which point H wisely desisted because he knows the merest mention of Bedelia sends me into fits of hysterically jealous rage and he didn’t want any nearby objects flung at his perfectly groomed head.

“Oh, a long time ago beloved,” replied H, batting his eyelashes at me over the top of his newspaper. “Years before I met you.”

“Well that’s all right then isn’t it?” I said, deliberately replacing the pepper pot which I’d started swinging in a rather ominous way. H’s head sheepishly disappeared behind the newspaper again with a small sigh of relief. In this respect I definitely have a distinct advantage when it comes to throwing things, because while I’m generally very good at catching whatever H flings in my direction he only has a save rate about 80% of the time. I suspect that this is because, unlike me, H was not forced to play baseball at high school. Which all goes to show that life has a funny way of working out sometimes, because while I utterly loathed baseball my teenage self scarcely imagined how useful if would come in at a later date for fielding and pitching missiles at my Murder Husband.

 **10.00** I’ve just run into one of the neighbors outside the villa. She is young and pretty and very friendly: her name is Sophia. She asked me to thank H for a nice evening, but surely this is a lie because it was not in the evening but the morning, and was not nice as opposed to truly terrible.

Sophia was still stood there smiling at me, at which point I finally remembered that I’m supposed to be just a regular person as opposed to a fugitive from the law, so decided to invite her into the villa for coffee and conversation. It turns out that Sophia’s husband, Giovanni, is also older than her (and from the sound of it is a pretentious know-all; in other words, a non-murderous version of H) so she and I clearly have a lot in common and are possibly destined to become Platonic Besties.

 **11.30** I actually really enjoyed talking with Sophia. Unlike me, she knows a lot about men and keeping them happy so I have resolved to consult her rather than _Cosmopolitan_ from now on. She says H is obviously very protective of me but it’s only because he cares so much.

“Try to see it from his point of view Guglielmo,” she said. “You are clearly very precious to him and he does not wish to lose you.”

Now I feel a bit sorry for H. I suppose he’s not so bad, once you get past all the shameless bullshitting and serial murdering. I’ve now resolved to make more effort to keep him happy and let him know that he’s appreciated. Sophia suggested cooking a romantic meal, but I pointed out that H is an ace chef and whatever crap I sling together would probably just make him die of hilarity. Sophia said it’s the thought that counts. Is it? Hmmm. Maybe I should cook a romantic meal for H. What could possibly go wrong?

On an unrelated note, I wish Sophia wouldn’t call me Guglielmo. But then again, ‘Gug’ sounds even worse.

 **12.00**     Ugh, Disaster Part 2 has now occurred because it turns out The Dog With No Name left us a memento in exchange for falling for his extreme manipulation and briefly adopting him – a fuck ton of fleas. Parasitic, bloodsucking bastard fleas…a complete metric ton thereof.

“Excellent work, beloved,” said H. “I hope you realize you’re going to have to arrange fumigating the house? Considering that it happened in the first place is _entirely_ your responsibility.”

I pointed out to H that it was, technically, the dog’s responsibility.

H brandished his cheekbones at me in an irritable sort of way and said he wasn’t prepared to debate the logistics of our flea infestation and that if I wanted to invite the dog to come round and collect its fleas one-by-one then I was quite welcome to do so; as long as I realize that, should this plan fail, I would have to get rid of them myself. I pretended I was listening then waited until H had finished before batting my eyelashes and politely suggesting that he take charge of murdering the fleas himself – on the grounds that he has an unusual level of skill and enthusiasm for all things murder-related – but he says he won’t. Hmmm…that what he thinks.

 **12.30**     H has announced his intention of staying in a hotel until I have got rid of the fleas. Yeah RIGHT *guffaw*. I give him six hours max before he comes back – there’s no way he can live without me for any longer than that.

 **14.00** In H’s absence I improvised flea protection by tucking my jeans into my socks so there was no way I could get bitten by the little bastards. I’m actually quite glad H wasn’t there to witness it though, because it looked like a shitty DIY Haz-Mat suit. Probably because it was, in fact, a shitty DIY Haz-Mat suit.

 **17.00** As predicted, H has come back from the hotel. The fleas all leapt up to greet him when he came in.

 **17.10** H admitted that he’d come home because he missed me too much, although was also at pains to point out that this was totally contrary to his better judgement. He has agreed to murder the fleas first thing this evening. I confided my insight that fleas are Of The Devil, because they could never have been created by a people-loving God. H said that I might well have a point.

I have started referring to the fleas as the minions of Satan, although H asked me not to do this in front of other people in case they assume I am having a nervous breakdown. As in: “our villa is infested with the minions of Satan.”

 **18.30**     H has murdered the fleas like a fucking boss. I told him that if he’d only listened to me then the situation could have been resolved ages ago as opposed to wasting time with my inferior murdering abilities. H just folded his arms and looked severe then said under no circumstances am I ever allowed to bring a foul, parasitic beast of a dog into the house ever again. I pretended to agree while sighing loudly and looking suitably sorry and regretful. However, what H doesn’t know is that I fully intend to make him change his mind by harnessing the powers of my Sad Face. The Sad Face involves putting on my glasses and looking soulful before mournfully gazing at H over the top of them and it has never yet failed – although it also counts as the nuclear option on the grounds that it can only be used sparingly, otherwise H will realize he is being bullshitted and The Sad Face will lose its potency. As of yet it has a 100% success rate. For someone who regularly tops the FBI’s Most Wanted and is generally renowned as a cold-hearted bastard, H is actually a massive pushover.

 **19.00** H has just been banging on the door demanding to use the shower but I was practicing The Sad Face in the mirror so told him he couldn’t come in.

 **20.30** Have just downloaded the _Ghostbusters_ theme from YouTube so I could sing along and substitute ‘Fleabusters’ during the chorus. H was not amused by my musical triumph of wit – although that’s surely his problem rather than mine.

 **20.45** H’s accent is not all that conducive to pronouncing ‘Ghostbusters’ because he puts the emphasis on the wrong vowels. It sounds like he’s saying ‘those bastards.’

 **21.00** It actually turns out that H has never seen _Ghostbusters_ and doesn’t even know what it is! This means I’m going to have to track down a copy and make him watch it because I genuinely cannot imagine a life of such cultural deprivation that it doesn’t include _Ghostbusters_. Although I suppose I would say that, being a child of the 80s (unlike H, who could more accurately be described as a child of the 1880s).

 

**Thursday**

Sophia came round again this morning only this time she brought Giovanni with her. He turned out to be the singing neighbor with all the stomach hair – which is rather unfortunate because I wasn’t able to get past the fact I’ve been forced to witness his hirsute rolls of abdominal flab so couldn’t quite look him in the eye. I feel like I need to announce “I saw your grotesque stomach” just to get it out of the way so we can move beyond it and become friends. Poor Sophia, though. Imagine having to administer sexual favors to anyone attached to that stomach (in contrast to H, who is undeniably attractive by general standards even if his face is rather odd-looking when the room is lit a certain way).

Sophia asked me how H and I met, which promptly made me choke on my coffee because there is absolutely no version of this story that sounds socially acceptable. Fortunately H walked in halfway through and proceeded to expel charming bullshit. As predicted H and Giovanni immediately got on like a house on fire on the basis of being pretentious know-alls, so I left them to it and went to talk to Sophia instead. Before I left I overheard Giovanni telling H that I am a fine young man and that H is very lucky and should make every effort to be nice to me and keep me happy. H was nodding away like anything. Think I may now love Giovanni (in a non-sexual way).

 **11.00**    Giovanni and H are currently having a competition over who can be the most pretentious know-all. Needless to say H is winning. I felt like cheering him on, but resisted because I didn’t want to hurt Sophia’s feelings about being married to an inferior pretentious know-all. Not that H and I are _actually_ married, being husbands more in the murderous as opposed to the legal sense.

 **11.10**    Quite struck by the fact that everyone is talking English out of deference to me as the only non-Italian speaker. I’m so goddamn special.

 **11.30** Sophia and I are also getting on like a house on fire, except if Giovanni and H’s house is an ostentatious mansion with butlers and a murder basement then our house is a comfortable, shabby apartment with pizza and wine bottles and Bob Marley playing in the background. Giovanni and H are watching us with matching smug, sentimental smiles on their faces: no doubt they are secretly congratulating themselves for obtaining attractive younger partners despite being old and past it themselves (and in Giovanni’s case having a stomach like the pelt of a dead Muppet).

 **14.30** After Sophia and Giovanni had left H insisted on going into another Memory Palace coma (or possibly just a coma after an excess of pretentious know-allitis) which meant I had to spend the afternoon in a state of profound boredom…which meant I made the mistake of reading _Cosmopolitan_ again. I say it was a mistake because I stumbled across an article on couple’s sleeping styles and wasn’t particularly pleased with what I discovered. It turns out that H and I favor something called ‘The Wuthering Heights’ – and no prizes for guessing who is who. I'm starting to think _Cosmopolitan_ is full of the world’s evil. In fact I'd probably have a more relaxing time flicking through the Necronomicon.

 **15.00** Not that it really matters of course. I mean who cares how you sleep? It doesn’t mean anything just because one person finds lying on the other person’s chest more comfortable. It’s not like you are _literally_ Cathy from Wuthering Heights (and therefore physically feeble and emotionally hysterical) and the other person is Heathcliff (and therefore a hyper-macho asshole).

 **15.10** It definitely doesn’t mean that.

 **15.11** God this is really embarrassing. Look how I’m overreacting because of a stupid fluff article in the Necronomicon.

 **15.12** Yeah I’m definitely over-reacting.

 **15.13**     A bit.

 **15.14** Am I?

 **15.15**     Yeah, I definitely am.

 **15.16** Except maybe…

 **15.17**     No. No I am _definitely_ over-reacting.

 **15.18**     Except…It’s only that…

 **15.19**     OH GODDAMMIT I WANT TO BE HEATHCLIFF.

 **15.20**    Critical mass has now been reached in respect of my Wuthering Heights theory so I ultimately admitted defeat and went to track down H so I could explain it to him in more detail. Unfortunately the problem with this meant that I was required to say it out loud: at which point I realized that it’s actually rather stupid. H obviously felt the same because he got his ‘Holy God, what is the little fool going on about _now_?’ expression on his face about halfway through. However I didn’t let this deter me, because it’s not as if H doesn’t talk total crap himself most of the time – it just sounds a lot more impressive because of all the long words and metaphors. Nevertheless, this doesn’t change that long-worded and metaphorical crap is still, in fact, crap. 

“So in _conclusion_ ,” I said, “I expect you to stop being so hyper-masculine and testosterone-driven all the time and understand that you can’t always expect to wear the proverbial trousers in this relationship just because you are the FBI’s Most Wanted and a notorious maniac.”

“Whatever you like beloved,” replied H in an innocent voice. He then demonstrated his commitment to stop being a macho asshole by picking me up in a bridal-style lift, carrying me upstairs, then ripping my clothes off before throwing me onto the bed and investing a considerable amount of time and energy in ravishing me within an inch of my life. To be fair I didn’t actually have any complaints about the ravishing part, although this all goes to show that H is a crafty bastard and no matter what you say to him he can always be relied on to do the exact opposite. No doubt if I’d asked him to be more of a macho asshole then he would have started batting his eyelashes at me and begged to be carried upstairs and ravished within an inch of _his_ life. (However I do not intend to put this hypothesis to the test, because there’s no way I will ever be able to fling H about in the way he flings me on the grounds that he weighs a fucking ton and I would not be able to carry him without incurring a serious bodily injury).

 **19.00** Still too exhausted from the extensive ravishing to get out of bed so I told H that he’d have to bring dinner upstairs for me, as if he was my butler. Contrary to expectation H not only agreed to do this but then tenderly sat on the edge of the bed and hand fed me like I was some sort of Emperor or immensely spoilt reality TV star. In fact the more I ordered him about the more adoring he became. Possibly he’s plotting something (re. ‘the big surprise’) and is only doing it to lull me into a false sense of security, but it doesn’t really matter because it’s not every day that you get to be treated like a spoilt man baby by the FBI’s Most Wanted.

 **19.30**     _Note to self:_ investigate further potentials for exploiting H’s submissive streak/servant complex.

 **22.00** As per the Wuthering Heights theory I informed H that I was absolutely not going to sleep with my head on his chest, because fuck that I AM HEATHCLIFF. H looked a bit pissed off because he likes me sleeping on him (as if I am a large, sentient stuffed toy) even though he’ll never admit it. As revenge he fell asleep on top of me instead and to be perfectly honest I consider it _extremely_ fortunate that I didn’t asphyxiate because, as previously noted, he weighs a fucking metric ton. Not that I’m not entirely sure how someone so toned can weigh a metric ton, but he definitely does. I suspect it to be a combination of muscle mass and malevolence.

Tried to winch H off me using the principles of hydraulic engineering. Was not successful.

Tried waking H up by telling him the bed was on fire. Also an unsuccessful strategy.

H likewise impervious to being told that there were FBI agents around the bed, mutant pigs in the rockery, and tooth fairies under the pillow.

Told H that Hieronomo had come round to ask permission to fuck me over the kitchen table. No effect. It was at this point that I began to worry that H might actually be dead.

Huh. Turned out that H was awake the entire time but was too entertained by my escalating levels of bullshit to move and it was only my whimpering anxiety that he might be dead which compelled him to enlighten me. Honestly, what an absolute dick. I climbed on top of him instead so he could see how much _he_ likes being slowly crushed to death, but it turned out to be unsuccessful as a revenge ploy because my weight doesn’t bother H on the grounds that he is comprised of a metric ton of malevolence. To compound the point he wrapped his arms round my back so I couldn’t get off and then pretended to be asleep when I told him to let go. In the end I had to stay like that and my neck got twisted at a weird angle like the girl in _The Exorcist_. Although I definitely drooled on his chest while I was asleep so technically victory was still mine.

**Friday**

I’ve just heard from Sophia that the delicatessen has had a ‘closed’ sign in the window for the past few days. I asked H point-blank if he’d murdered Hieronomo but he says he hasn’t. H was actually pretty annoyed – now he has nowhere to buy his pretentious maniac food and didn’t even have the satisfaction of murdering Hieronomo as a consolation prize. My own theory is that Hieronomo has belatedly realized what a massive badass H is and that he chose the wrong villa to attack with stealth via Europop. To be honest I’m not quite sure how H manages it. It’s not like he even needs to say anything – just a single look is enough to telegraph the fact that if you fuck with him then he will murder you to death.

 **11.00** Just spent several minutes practicing H’s ‘I am a massive badass’ expression in the bathroom mirror; it was more difficult than I thought it would be. I don’t think my attempt was very good. In fact if I’m honest it was shit. The glasses definitely don’t help.

 **11.05** Not convinced I have the right sort of face to pull off the Badass Expression successfully.

 **11.20** Asked H to rate my Badass Expression out of 10. He gave me a 6, but ultimately admitted that he was being generous and it really only warranted a 4.

 **12.00** Am now feeling irrationally irritated by the fact that H is a bigger badass than I am. Although I suppose that at least I have a massive badass at my permanent disposal, which is some measure of consolation. If life gives you lemons, make lemonade. Or, to put it another way: if life has given you a rather feeble non-badass appearance than go on the run with a gigantic badass whilst making full use of their badassery for your own self-serving purposes.

 **14.00** H is about to head out to the village for some groceries and asked me if I wanted anything. I still haven’t decided what I should cook for the romantic meal, so had to pretend I needed the bathroom in order to secretly text Sophia and ask her advice.

Sophia said to keep it simple. But there’s no way H would ever accept anything simple, so I’ve decided to delay the romantic meal until I can come up with something suitable which doesn’t contain illegal ingredients.

 **16.00** H has just asked if I’d like to hire a car next weekend and drive out somewhere. I agreed that this was a good idea as long as I can drive, at which point H smugly reminded me that this wouldn’t be possible as I don’t have an International Driver’s Permit (H obviously has one of these, as he’s always having to flee the country at short notice). H then asked me where I’d like to go. Should I let him decide, or is it better to choose myself so he doesn’t think I’m being lazy and ungrateful?

Went to the bathroom to text Sophia. Sophia said to ask H if he had any preferences, then to say what my preferences were, and then use this shortlist to choose something that we would both like to do. But H will probably want to go somewhere he can murder people and I’m not sure that this is a suitable way to spend a Saturday afternoon.

Went back into the kitchen and told H I would think about it. This means I need to think of somewhere where there are no people.

Returned to the bathroom to ask Sophia if she knows anywhere local which is entirely uninhabited. She recommended a few secluded beauty spots and then added something suggestive about us wanting to go to a deserted field so we can have ecstatic sex outdoors where only the wildlife can see us. Apparently this is called ‘al fresco.’ This is actually not a bad idea.

Have just gone and suggested going al fresco to H, who looked a bit taken aback. No doubt he thinks it’s beneath his dignity to have ecstatic sexual intercourse in the middle of a deserted field surrounded by Italian badgers and groundhogs, or whatever it is they have over here.

 **17.00** I’m spending so much time in the bathroom texting Sophia that H has just asked me, very seriously, whether I have a urinary tract infection. I told him that I didn’t but he could check my prostate if he wanted just to be on the safe side. This was meant to be a joke but H didn’t get it.

Jokes are never as funny when you have to explain them.

 **17.40** H is now convinced I have a urine infection and am in denial about it. I was tempted to text Sophia to ask advice about what to do when your partner won’t take your word about the state of your urinary health, but it would mean having to go to the bathroom again and therefore count as Compounding The Problem.

 **17.50**    I asked H if there were any circumstances under which he’d consider having sex in a field. He said he would think about it.

 **18.00**     H is still thinking about it.

 **18.05**     Told H that he can go on top if he wants because I, unlike _some_ people, don’t care about a few bits of grass and twigs. Although I don’t know why H would care about them either, seeing as I know for a fact he’s been covered in _far_ worse things (often from several people at the same time). 

 **18.30** Have just shouted: “For the last time I don’t have a urine infection! And why won’t you just admit you’re too pretentious to have sex in a field?” at the exact moment that Signor Bianchi walked in to collect the rent. Embarrassing.

 **19.00** H keeps trying to get me to drink cranberry juice for the sake of the phantom urine infection. I was going to tell him to fuck off, but then decided it was probably better to drink it as no doubt he’d render me unconscious and force it down my throat anyway. It’s not like it would be the first time.

 **20.00** Just realized it would have been more appropriate to tell H to “piss off.” Another lost opportunity.

 

**Saturday**

H is still refusing to have sex in case it exacerbates the Urine Infection That Never Was. This means I’m now going to have to pretend I really do have a urine infection so he can cure it. Annoying.

 **11.00** I told H that he is an amazing curer of urine infections, so can we have sex now please? H refused – he thinks I’m still in denial about the wellbeing of my urinary tract.

H is such a pain in the ass. Or even, it could be said, in the bladder.

 **11.30** I told H that he’s a urine healing wizard, so can we have sex now please? He said no.

 **12.00** I finally found an opportunity to tell H to “piss off” and then cracked up laughing. Needless to say he didn’t get it so I had to explain it to him but he still didn’t laugh. He’s so annoying. The only thing he finds funny is making cringeworthy cannibal puns.

 **12.15** Have asked H if we could have sex if my prostate wasn’t invited. He said no. What a total hypocrite – it’s a bit late to plead concern about my physical health considering that this is the same person who once tried to saw my head open. I pointed this out to H, who just looked supercilious. Although admittedly it’s not easy to look supercilious and morally superior while being reminded of the time you tried to saw your other (better) half’s head open, so credit where credit’s due to H for managing to pull it off.

 **12.30** H is still doing an impression of a celibate nun with a urine obsession. I’m now going to add ‘epic hypocrisy’ to the existing charges of shameless bullshitting and serial murdering.

 **13.00** H has finally taken himself and his urinary tract infatuation out for the afternoon, which means I can do whatever I like and behave in a generally irresponsible and immature way without him rolling his eyes at me. Although this is actually rather ironic, given that H’s idea of being mature and responsible is doing things which are highly illegal.

 **17.30** Sophia has just walked in and found me dancing round the kitchen to _The Rockafeller Skank_. Embarrassing.

 **18.00** I tried to make Sophia a cup of coffee using H’s expensive coffee machine but ultimately had to admit defeat because it looks like something off the deck of the Star Ship Enterprise and you need a license to be able to operate it. Sophia couldn’t work it either so we both gave up in the end and had tea instead while I apologised for H insisting on owning a coffee machine that’s so advanced it’s practically sentient in the manner of HAL-1000 or Skynet from _The Terminator_ films. Sophia proceeded to confide that she thought H is extremely charming and glamorous (at which point I interrupted to say that H is already _well_ aware of this) before adding that she also thinks there’s something rather intimidating about him. I felt I couldn’t reasonably contradict her – considering that even to the uninitiated H is fucking terrifying – but there’s also no doubt that H knows I would never forgive him if he murdered Sophia, so ultimately felt it safe to tell her that he is completely harmless and a massive pushover. I then demonstrated The Sad Face to prove it, although first we had to perform a reconnaissance to ensure that H wasn’t in the vicinity (because if he ever finds out then The Sad Face is done for, and it will be extremely difficult to find something that’s even half so effective for getting my own way with minimal effort).

 **18.30** Talking with Sophia while pretending to be a normal person instead of the live-in lover of the FBI’s Most Wanted made me realize how nice it is to be happy for once rather than perpetually tormented and pissed off. When combined together this means that becoming the live-in lover of the FBI’s Most Wanted is a necessary condition for not being tormented and pissed-off…which is possibly not a good thing, but I still suggested having a drink to celebrate anyway. Sophia asked what we were celebrating but I had a convenient bout of deafness and pretended not to hear her.

 **20.00**     Oh God. Giovanni must have met H on his way home because they’ve just turned up having a pretentious conversation about Verdi – which abruptly cut off when they walked in and found me and Sophia engaged in a dance-off round the kitchen table while singing “Somebody call 911! Shawty fire burning on the dance floor…Whoa!” at each other in an embarrassingly over-enthusiastic way. Now they’re just standing there wearing expressions of incomprehension (Giovanni) and amused disbelief (H). Sophia and I privately agreed that it was like getting busted by our dads.

 **20.10**     Giovanni and H are obviously determined to prove they are not remotely dad-like (even though they totally are) by telling us to carry on. But there’s _no way_ I’m going to sing about assorted shawties burning fire on the dance floor in front of H, not least because given half the chance he would record it on his phone and put it on YouTube. What made it even worse was that I was doing something extremely mortifying during the dance-off that involved sticking my elbows at an improbable angle and waving my arms around as if I was trying to swat a giant fly – and the fact that Sophia was doing exactly the same is no consolation at all, because it’s a widely acknowledged fact that women manage to look alluring even when dancing badly whereas men just look deranged. Apart from those men in Madonna’s _Vogue_ video I suppose…although they’re hardly representative of the average man’s ability to not look like an abomination when waving his arms above his head in time to horrific pop music from the late 2000s.

As if to compound this point Giovanni immediately whisked Sophia up in his arms and started saying “Bella, bella! Mia cara!” on repeat, so I made the most of the temporary distraction to take H aside for a quiet word and strongly suggest that we agree between ourselves that the whole dancing interlude didn’t happen and to never speak of it again. H agreed that this was probably for the best, but still added that I am completely wrong in my analysis and actually looked extraordinarily alluring – despite the fact he initially thought I might be having a seizure and was revving up to provide emergency first aid.

“Thanks,” I said.

H told me that he was rather disappointed to be proved wrong because he had been looking forward to administering the kiss of life. This is his idea of a joke, although I didn’t groan too loudly because it makes a nice change from all those fucking awful cannibalism puns and H should be encouraged to experiment with non-punning cannibal humor as often as possible.

 **21.00** Just heard H saying “What is a shawty?” in a confused voice (unlike me, H is never embarrassed to admit not knowing things because as far as he’s concerned if he doesn’t know it already then it’s clearly not worth knowing in the first place). Sophia patiently explained to H that a shawty is a young attractive woman, although could also be used as slang for one’s romantic partner before adding: “Technically Guglielmo could be seen as your shawty.” H looked so appalled he temporarily lost the powers of speech.

 **21.10** Just asked H if I am, in fact, his shawty. He got a long-suffering look on his face and said that he supposed so, but that if I ever refer to myself as such in public then he will murder me to death. Unfortunately Sophia overheard the last part, which meant I had to explain that this is H’s idea of an affectionate joke.

 **21.30** Giovanni and H ended up renewing their pretentious Verdi conversation so Sophia and I escaped to the other side of the room and proceeded to get slightly more drunk than is generally considered wise. After a while we started singing karaoke songs even though we didn’t have a karaoke machine. Sophia laughed so much she spilt her cocktail all down her dress – which I didn’t do, although only on the grounds I wasn’t wearing a dress. I spilt mine all down my jeans instead.

The damp patch on my jeans is rather unfortunately placed. It looks like I’ve wet myself. Which H was at great pains to point out.

I’m actually really glad H is finally here, even though he did virtually accuse me of wetting myself. Right, LET’S GET THIS PARTY STARTED.

 **22.00**    Just spent five minutes sitting on H’s knee while cackling loudly and repeatedly pointing out to him that ‘cocktail’ has the word ‘cock’ in it. H said he was, in fact, already aware of this and that the information wasn’t quite as thrilling as I appeared to think it was. But he is wrong because it is _hilarious_.

Cock.

Cockcockcockcockcockcock.

Cock.

Laughed so much I fell off H’s knee. At least that is H’s story (and he is sticking with it) but I suspect I was actually pushed. This is typical – he’ll never let me forget about that cliff.

Sophia has explained to Giovanni about how ‘cocktail’ in English is a source of extreme hilarity for the lexically perverted. Giovanni also thought it was funny. It’s just my luck to be in a long term relationship with someone who is too high-minded to be a lexical pervert.

Have just accused H of not being sufficiently perverted in all matters lexical. He agreed that it was a terrible tragedy but that he thought, in time, he would be able to come to terms with it. But who cares about him? What about ME? What about my rights to lexical perversity?

Just asked H about my rights. He said: “What about them?”

Possibly I am over-reacting about all this.

 **22.30** Giovanni has just produced some weed and started rolling up joints for everyone. The way he did it clearly implied that he thought he was being incredibly daring and provocative by trading in illegal substances, which as law-breaking goes was actually enormously pitiful considering he was in the presence of the FBI’s Most Wanted. Speaking of which I tried to encourage H to get stoned as well, but he is such an interminable badass that even the marijuana was slightly scared of him and had no demonstrable effects. It’s possible he might have smiled a few times but that was about it.

 **23.00**     H is looking a bit beady. Can’t tell if he’s stoned or just being maniacal.

 **23.20**     H has actually laughed! It was somewhat subdued by normal standards but he definitely did it. Victory is mine! H is stoned!

 **23.30**     Although in retrospect it may have been a tactical error to get H stoned in case he gets the munchies afterwards.

 **23.40** Oh my shitting God and fuck. He might eat the village!

 **23.41** WHAT HAVE I DONE?!

 **00.10** Kept monitoring H for signs of latent munchies. He seemed okay but I wasn’t particularly reassured because it’s never a good idea to let your guard down where H is concerned on the grounds that he’ll murder the guard to death and then eat it afterwards.

 **00.30**    Sophia has just asked me why I was jumping up and down in front of a tree while punching it and bellowing “You want a piece of me you spikey headed shit?” I patiently explained that in the dark the branches looked like antlers – which is an entirely reasonable mistake that anyone could make – before slowly realising that I’ve been so preoccupied with misguidedly getting H stoned I’d failed to notice how I’m now unbelievably stoned myself. Oh dear.

 **00.40** Yes. I am undoubtedly somewhat stoned. In addition to being more than slightly drunk.

 **01.05** Ended up slumped on the garden bench using H’s lap as a pillow while emitting the occasional high-pitched giggling noise; first on accident, and then on purpose because of the way it makes H laugh. The stars are very bright and luminous and heavenly and shit like that…they are like little bright bits of bright shit in the sky. Some of mine and H’s stars are always going to be the same: we are always going to have the same bright sky shit. Oh my Goooood that’s so profound.

 **01.10** Pointed out to H that we have the same stellar star sky shits. He patted me on the head.

 **01.15** I don’t care if H is a massive maniac. There's no one in the world I'd rather share my sky shit with because H is like a mad sex teacup full of awesomeness. Although in spite of that I still hope he doesn’t eat the village.

 **01.20** I lodged a formal request with H not to eat the village; he patted me on the head again.

 **01.25** Just spent five minutes chasing H round the garden while yelling “Eat me instead you sexy bastard.”

**Sunday**

Another hangover from Satan.

H told me that I spent all last night kicking him in my sleep and that no matter where he positioned himself in the bed my tiny hyperactive feet kept making contact to the extent he ended up having to sleep on the sofa – and was half expecting my feet to follow him there as well. H concluded this thrilling anecdote with an observation that, behind all the long words and metaphors, could effectively be translated as: ‘if I didn’t love you more than life itself I would have murdered you ages ago for being the bedfellow from hell.’

“Yeah, well, at least I don’t _snore_ ,” I said with impressive improvisation. “You sound like a herd of rutting wildebeest.” This is actually a complete lie, but it doesn’t matter because it has the advantage of being one of those highly convenient lies that are impossible to disprove.

H brandished his cheekbones at me like a pair of offensive weapons then said “I do not _snore_ ” in tones of much deeper dignity than anyone accused of sounding like rutting wildebeest has a rightful claim to.

“I’m afraid you do,” I replied in tones of heavy regret. “I’m sorry to have to break it to you.” H is now looking extremely pissed off; that’ll teach him to sleep on the sofa.

 **11.45** H has just stuck his head round the door and reiterated that he doesn’t snore, and even if he did – which was not an admission – then it certainly wouldn’t sound like a herd of ungulates engaged in sexual activity. In fact from the way H was talking it was clear he thinks any snoring of his would sound like the Requiem Mass in D Minor performed by the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra (possibly with Mozart himself at the helm).

“Shhh,” I said. “Listen.”

“To what?” said H.

“Listen harder,” I said, waving my hand around. “Can’t you hear that?”

H repeated that he couldn’t hear anything except the sound of me being a half-wit.

“There it is!” I said. “It’s the sound of the drama llama. It’s coming to _take you away_.”

H gave me a look like he thought I was going a bit mad, but I have spent approximately 73% of my adult life receiving similar looks from people so it therefore bounced off without any obvious effect.

 **12.00** H is still refusing to accept the whole ‘snores like a herd of rutting wildebeest’ proposition. I told him to channel his inner ice queen and “let it go” but he says he’s going to set a recorder going to prove it. Oh buggering shit. This means I’m now going to have to simulate snoring like a herd of rutting wildebeest myself or else the lie will be discovered!

 **12.10** Practiced snoring like a herd of rutting wildebeest. Not convinced I was very successful. I sounded more like a herd of cackling pot-bellied pigs.

 **12.30** Although come to think of it, what do rutting wildebeest _actually_ sound like?

 **12.31** I suppose I could just snore loudly – it’s not like he’s going to download rutting wildebeest on YouTube and compare decibel and sound tone.

 **12.32**    But…what if he does?

 **12.33**    Can’t find any rutting wildebeest on the internet. I hope if we ever get busted the FBI doesn’t go through my internet history.

 **12.34** It’s possible to find _anything_ on the internet, so why can’t Google find me some goddamn rutting wildebeest?

 **12.35**    H is calling upstairs to ask what I’m doing. Told him I was looking at comedy cat videos on YouTube.

 **12.36** Just tried ‘wildebeest: sexual congress’ and ‘orgasmic wildebeest.’ Nothing. Whoever said the internet is a gateway of all knowledge was talking out their ass. Either that or they never lied to their partner about snoring like a rutting wildebeest and were then required to do emergency research to cover themselves.

 **12.37** It’s possible that I’m now overthinking this entire issue. I’m probably overthinking it. Yeah, I’m almost positively, definitely overthinking it.

 **12.38**    BUT WHAT IF HE CHECKS? I bet Google will give _him_ some rutting wildebeest if he asks for them.

 **12.45** Have just owned up to the fact that the whole ‘snores like a herd of rutting wildebeest’ thing was technically an exaggeration. In the sense that it was not entirely true. In other words, it was a lie. H looked enormously smug as such a speedy confession; in fact he looked as smug as a rutting wildebeest.

 **17.00**    Speaking of rutting, I _finally_ convinced H that he has cured my urinary tract infection.

 **17.30** Sex was had.

 **18.30**    Lots of sex.

 **19.00** OhmyGodOhmyGodOhmyGodOhmyGod.

 **19.05**    OH MY GOD. Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeesssssss.

 **19.06** ARGHHHHHH.

 **19.07**    Sweet baby Jesus.

 **19.10** May not be able to walk straight for a few days.

 **19.15**    H looking extraordinarily smug.

 **19.20** Going to purposively fall asleep with my head on H’s chest so I can passively aggressively drool on him as punishment for the excessive smugness. Normality is thus restored.

 **20.00**     Week two of diary keeping now officially over! The only thing easier than keeping a diary and exorcising a phantom urine infection is being on the run from Interpol and the US Government with your maniacal murder husband who loves you so much he’ll kill your fleas. Which is say: extremely easy indeed.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Monday**

I’m sorry to say that I’ve made a _fatal_ error of judgement by telling H about Sophia calling me Gug. I say fatal, because now H has now started calling me that himself. ALL THE TIME.

I informed H that if he doesn’t stop referring to me as Gug, Gug Graham, or Agent Gug then I will never have sex with him ever, _ever_ again. Although unfortunately I’ve clearly used this threat a few too many times before, because H didn’t even pretend to fall for it – he just said “My dear Gug, you should familiarize yourself with the fable of the boy who cried wolf” in an incredibly superior sort of way.

Sometimes I hate H with the fire of a thousand burning suns.

 **11.30**    As a defensive measure I have drawn up a shortlist of equally obnoxious names to call H as an anti-Gug deterrent:

  * ~~Hanners~~
  * ~~Annabelle~~
  * ~~The Chesapeake Stripper~~



After careful deliberation I’ve finally settled on ‘Hanniballs.’ Although I admit I’m not particularly confident of success because H will almost certainly pretend to like it just to spite me. Plus it probably wouldn’t bother him if I called him that in public, because to care about such things you need to have some rudimentary sense of shame and H has absolutely no shame at all. None.

In fact on reflection I can’t help feeling that ‘Hanniballs’ would only compound the problem because H might see it as throwing down the gauntlet – and it’s generally a huge mistake to throw a gauntlet in H’s direction because he will just murder it to death.

 **12.00**     I’ve invited Sophia round for a crisis meeting to consult about the whole Gug and Hanniballs dilemma. After she’d stopped laughing she told me to sit down with H and explain to him that I really don’t like it and to use lots of open communication, ‘I’ statements and active listening. I told her that while this was a good suggestion it was unlikely to work because H will just hear me out then say “Admirable use of active listening Gug” at the end of it.

Sophia then offered to come round while H is here and make a point of referring to me as ‘Will’ in front of him to try and shame him into submission. I was forced to explain that this was also a good plan, but likewise not destined for success on the grounds of H having no sense of shame at all (none).

Sophia’s final suggestion was to stop having a tantrum every time H calls me Gug because if I don’t give him a reaction then he’ll get bored and eventually stop. But the problem with this is that it doesn’t factor for H’s freakishly high boredom threshold (given that this was the same person who was perfectly happy to sit in a glass box for three years if it meant he could have the last word at the end of them).

Sophia gave up then and said that our relationship is way too complicated for her to offer advice on.

 **13.30** I told H that if he starts calling me Will again then I will administer heightened levels of sexual favors before adding that I don’t really care because I quite like the name Gug, I’m not even bothered: I’m going to call myself Gug all the time so screw you. H said he would think about it then added: “Admirable use of reverse psychology Gug.”

 **14.30** Okay, so, since this morning there have been good and bad developments in the Name Drama. The good news is that H has agreed to stop calling me Gug. The bad news is that he’s decided he still wants a nickname for me that no one else uses so has started calling me Willgram instead.

I immediately called him Hector in retaliation, but it wasn’t particularly successful because Hector is a massive badass from the Classics (as well as a proper name) whereas Willgram just sounds like a bastardized version of MoneyGram or Instagram. Possibly it could be a company for when you’re planning your own death. As in: “ _Don’t die intestate! If you want to ensure your property is responsibly handled after your death then trust your legacy to Willgram!_ ”

 **14.40**    Despite mulling it over, I still can’t _quite_ work out whether H’s desire for a nickname is an affectionate gesture or a malevolent attempt at psychological torture – although this inability is hardly my fault, considering that H has a serious track record for getting these two things confused on a semi-regular basis. God knows why: it’s not exactly like they’re difficult to tell apart. In fact for someone whose IQ is reputed to be unmeasurable by the standard tests, H is actually a bit of a dumbass.

 **14.50** I just referred to H as ‘Willibal’ out of desperation. I don’t entirely know why I came up with it, only that it’s worked amazingly well as a Gug/Willgram deterrent; not because it sounds stupid, but because he can’t stand having to be in second place for once.

 **15.00** To emphasize the point I’ve borrowed Hieronomo’s strategy for trying to beat someone into submission by earnestly serenading H every time he comes into the room. I mainly achieved this by substituting the name ‘Willibal’ in a wide and interesting array of songs from the canon of popular music. Therefore:

“ _Can you hear the drums Willibal? I remember long ago another starry night like this, in the firelight Willibal_ …”

“ _Play that funky music Willibal…_ ”

“ _Wake up Willibal, I think I’ve got something to say to you_ …”

_“Hey there Willibal Lecter, what's it like in New York City? I'm a thousand miles away but boy, tonight you look so pretty…”_

“ _Willibal! I was defeated you won the war! Willibal! Promise to love you forever more..._ ”

 “ _And Willibal was his name, and Willibal was his name, W-I-L-L-I_ …”

As an aside, H might be the musical one but there’s no doubt that I have a far nicer singing voice. H is too gravelly to really be able to sing: if I was feeling malicious, I’d say it sounds like a chain-smoking walrus trying to fight its way out of a set of bagpipes.

 **16.00** H is hiding in the garden because he’s too allergic to being called Willibal (via the medium of song) to come into the house. VICTORY IS MINE.

 **16.15** H is still in the garden. He claims it’s because he’s doing some gardening but this is clearly a lie. The only time H would ever get off his pretentious ass and dig a hole in the ground is because he wanted to bury a corpse.

 **16.20** In retrospect my Gug-deterrent strategy has possibly worked a bit _too_ well because I’m now getting extremely bored in the villa without the maniacal presence of Willibal. This is typical of H – somehow he always manages to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat (or, to put it another way, to snatch his own name from the jaws of Willibal).

 **16.40** Am getting concerned that boredom might drive me to do something drastic (like reading the Necromonicon) so shouted out the window for H to come back inside. He said no.

 **16.45** I shouted out the window again and informed H that I know he isn’t gardening because there are no corpses which need disposing of and therefore he has absolutely no reason to be digging a hole. I then gave my solemn word of honor that I would stop singing Willibal-themed pop songs at him if he came indoors. Unfortunately Signor Bianchi also arrived at that exact moment to collect the rent. Awkward.

 **16.46** Just overheard H explaining to Signor Bianchi that ‘burying a corpse in the garden’ is an English euphemism for planting root vegetables and that Willibal is a quaint old English term of endearment. I honestly don’t know where he comes up with this stuff. Needless to say Signor Bianchi completely fell for it on the grounds of H being a charming bullshitter, although it was still entirely worth it just to watch Signor Bianchi going “Willibal? Willibal, you say?” and H being forced to clarify while all the time having the sort of expression on his face that means he’s sulking because he can’t murder anyone to death.

 **17.30** H and I have finally settled on the terms of a mutual Gug/Willgram/Hector/Willibal armistice using lots of open communication, ‘I’ statements and active listening. I feel like this is a good example of talking through one’s relationship dilemmas in An Authentic Way Like Caring Adults (which is actually a bit of a surprise, because it’s the sort of thing that the Necronomicon would suggest and I know from bitter experience that their advice is always complete shit).

 **19.00** Sex was had to celebrate the cessation of hostilities. Unfortunately I got a bit carried away and nearly shouted ‘Willibal’ at a critical point in proceedings so had to try and convert it into ‘Will’ instead as a last minute save. In this respect it’s very lucky that H is such an enormous narcissist and therefore considers shouting one’s own name at the moment of orgasm as an entirely reasonable and understandable thing to do. As such he didn’t think it was odd and the armistice was preserved. Relief.

 

**Tuesday**

I’ve just informed H that I want to get another dog. As expected he wasn’t exactly overwhelmed with joy at the idea of this so there was absolutely no option but to go nuclear and unleash the powers of The Sad Face. Success was immediate: H took one look at it and promptly started melting faster than butter in a heatwave before getting on the internet to look up the address of the nearest animal shelter. Thank God for The Sad Face – it never lets me down.

 **13.30** Hmmm. It looks like I may have been a bit pre-emptive in using up my weekly ration of Sad Face so soon because I’ve just seen an advert for fishing trips to Lake Cingoli that I’d really like to go on and am not sure how to convince H to come with me. It’s not like I could go on my own either, because H might be a highly maniacal bullshitter but I still get withdrawal symptoms if he’s away from me for more than 24 hours at a time. There’s also the fact that he gets withdrawal symptoms too (even though he’ll never admit it) which means he’ll no doubt employ his own version of The Sad Face to persuade me not to go in the first place. This means I’m now going to have to do a pre-emptive Sad Face strike.

 **15.00** Oh my God! DISASTER! H has just casually admitted that he worked out some time ago that The Sad Face is nothing more than a cynical bullshitting ploy but has been pretending to fall for it anyway because he finds it (and I quote) “oddly adorable.” This is terrible news. Partly because I don’t want to be seen as an oddly adorable sad-faced bullshitter, but mostly because it means H has effectively murdered The Sad Face and I’m going to have to think of something else.

 **15.30**    Have just texted Sophia and asked her to come round for an emergency brainstorming session in order to find The Sad Face’s replacement.

 **16.30**     Sophia listened patiently while I provided an account of the life and death of The Sad Face, then looked a bit confused and asked why I couldn’t just have a rational non-manipulative conversation with H about getting the things I want. I nearly choked on my tea. I mean I _could_ , I suppose…but seriously, where’s the fun in that?

 **17.30** Hmmm. This is actually quite the dilemma: how do you cynically out-bullshit the Emperor of cynical bullshitting?

 **18.00** Okay, the good news is that I’ve devised a new plan for manipulating H. The bad news is that it’s incredibly shameless; although considering that H has no discernible sense of shame there’s probably no real reason why I should either. SHAME IS FOR THE WEAK.

 **18.30**     I’ve successfully put my manipulation plan into action. Admittedly it was pretty basic though, because all it really involved was sashaying into the kitchen while wearing nothing except one of H’s shirts and an enormous smirk. As predicted the sight of my naked self in one of his expensive designer shirts had an extremely positive effect in that H promptly transformed into a Raging Sex Beast and pounced on me within seconds before bearing me off upstairs for an enthusiastic and highly attentive bit of ravishing.

“S-o-o-o,” I said afterwards. “I was thinking we could maybe go to Le Marche for a fishing trip?”

“Whatever you like beloved,” replied H in a besotted voice. Ha ha ha ha.

 **19.40** Have just informed H that he is a dirty old man; he looked extremely cheerful and made absolutely no attempt to deny it.

 **20.00** Still feeling highly smug over my Naked Shirt Victory. Although I was perhaps being a bit _too_ obvious about it, because H has just asked me why I keep smirking. I tried to deny it but H got his hugely condescending ‘my beloved little half-wit, don’t ever try and bullshit a bullshitter’ expression on his face and insisted that I was. I informed H that he is in no position to lecture _anyone_ about smirking, considering that he has one surgically attached to his bony features about 97.8% of the time.

H just smirked – of course – then started kissing my ear, because he is a manipulative old shit and knows that this always makes me laugh (all right…giggle) and that ear-kissing induced giggling is a sure way of losing the Intellectual High Ground. “But your smirking is particularly noticeable,” added H before shifting over to the other ear. “In fact you have a hugely delightful array of unusual facial expressions. Whenever I make love to you, for example…” H then proceeded to do an impression of someone who looked as if all their bodily extremities were being slowly dissolved in acid.

“Oh my God,” I yelled, “that is _not_ what my sex face looks like.”

“I am sorry to say that it is,” replied H, in the type of tone which meant he wasn’t sorry at all. “You also have an unfortunate tendency to shout your own name at the moment of orgasm.”

I triumphantly pointed out that this is actually incorrect and that I’d been going to shout “Willibal” but had to convert it into “Will” at the last moment to avert one of H’s epic sulks. H’s eyebrows shot up at hearing this unexpected information. Then he got that slightly confused expression on his face which means he’s trying to work out why he loves me more than life itself despite the fact I am regularly driving him to the verge of a nervous breakdown.

 **20.30**     In retrospect I’m now feeling much less smug about my victory. The reason being is that while the Naked Shirt Strategy might be highly effective, it’s not exactly _portable_. The good thing about The Sad Face was that it could be used anywhere and at any time, whereas the Naked Shirt Strategy is strictly limited to inside the house. I mean what if I need to manipulate H in the middle of the village square? It’s not like I can do a Superman-style transformation inside a nearby phone box then emerge in one of H’s shirts in order to quell him into submission via the power of murder boners. Not least because there have been no phone boxes anywhere since 2001.

Have just re-read the above paragraph. Suspect I am going a bit mad.

 **20.30**     After some consideration I’ve taken Sophia’s advice to heart and reluctantly ‘fessed up to H about trying to coerce him into going fishing with me via manipulative shirt sex. H looked surprised and said it was completely obvious I was doing that – and that he’d assumed it was _meant_ to be obvious – and that he actually enjoys my attempts to manipulate him because they’re so entertaining, despite the fact he likes giving me whatever I want regardless. “ _Ti amo_ , Will Graham,” said H, giving me a sentimental kiss on the forehead. “You know I always find it impossible to say no to you.” Which all goes to show that the one true constancy in an age of uncertainty and unrest is that the adage ‘don’t bullshit a bullshitter’ can always be relied upon.

 **21.00** It’s actually pretty good of H to agree to come fishing with me, considering that he hates fishing with a vengeance and thinks it’s not only deadly boring but pointless. I intend to do something to show how grateful I am. In fact I should probably just do something to show that I love and appreciate him in general. What though? I suppose it’s the kind of thing on which the Necrimonicon would be able to advise, but I don’t trust it to suggest something that’s non-fatally lethal, if not outright deadly (although H might like something that’s lethally deadly, so perhaps I should consult the Necrimonicon after all?). No…fuck the Necrimonicon. I’m going to think of something myself.

 

**Wednesday**

I’ve been putting a lot of mental energy into the ‘Show H How Much I Love Him Despite The Fact He Is A Massive Maniac’ plan. My starting point was that a good way of demonstrating love is to give the love object something they’re extremely fond of as a gift. Although admittedly this meant I ran into problems straight away because most of H’s favorite pastimes – (1) murdering things, (2) evading the law, (3) murdering the law, (4) evading the law while murdering things – don’t readily lend themselves to a gift format. After that I realized I was going to apply logic to the problem, so finally decided that because _I_ am one of H’s favorite things I might as well give him myself. Only because he has me most of the time it wouldn’t really count as a thoughtful gesture in the literal sense...which is why I’m going to give him some mongooses instead.

 **11.00**     I’ve spent the last half hour on the internet downloading pictures of mongooses in every conceivable variant, pose and position. There was a disturbingly large collection of mating mongoose to choose from, but I didn’t print any of these in case H thinks I am condoning bestiality.

 **11.10** Mongooses (Mongeese? Mongeeses?) are ugly looking little fuckers. This is typical of H: he gets to be a snake – which while admittedly not the most lovable of beasts still has a certain level of dignity – whereas I have to be a large weasel.

 **11.12** And there goes another one. Ten mongoose, twenty mongoose, thirty mongoose…

 **11.15**     I’m about to run out of printer paper; I’ll have to use photographic paper instead for some glossily hi-res mongoosity.

 **11.15**     H is going to love all these mongooses, oh my God.

 **11.40** I’m now in possession of a small army of mongoose avatars. Stage One of Operation Mongoose is now complete – time for Stage Two.

 **12.20** And my work is done! I have successfully concealed mongooses in every single part of the villa (including in the pockets of all H’s shirts and jackets, as well as a liberal collection in the garden and potting shed). H will be delighted. Our villa is like mongoose nirvana.

 **12.30** I’m actually pretty exhausted now: acquiring and dispersing love missive mongooses is surprisingly tiring. May have a nap.

 **12.32**     Several minutes of sleeping time wasted removing assorted mongoose from under the pillow case.

 **13.30**     Woke up to a bizarre blur of yellow right in front of me and briefly thought I was hallucinating again before realizing that H had left a big box of Graham Crackers on the bedside table with my glasses perched on the top. Honestly, he thinks he’s so hilarious. I drop-kicked the Graham Crackers off the balcony, although unfortunately I mistimed it and they only narrowly avoided taking out Signor Bianchi who had just turned up on the doorstep. Awkward.

 **13.35** Signor Bianchi made a big performance about returning the Graham Crackers which meant that I had to stand there clutching them to my chest like a new born baby and simulating immense gratitude for the fact he’d brought the bastards back. H walked in halfway through then took one look at me and went straight out again – probably because he knew if he’d stayed he would have been at a real risk of dying from poorly suppressed hilarity.

 **14.10** Signor Bianchi ended up hanging around for ages because he’s one of those unnatural individuals who genuinely enjoy talking crap with random acquaintances as opposed to keeping all social intercourse to a strict and sensible minimum like a normal person. He wanted to know all about my previous life in America, which meant I had to keep inventing increasingly outlandish lies – in the end I gave him a potted biography which was basically the title song of the _Fresh Prince of Bel Air_ for no better reason than the main character is called Will. I was just embellishing about ‘West Philadelphia, born and raised,’ and ‘a couple of guys, who were up to no good, started causing trouble in my neighborhood’ when we heard the front door closing and looked out the window to see H’s immaculately tailored back vanishing down the garden path (no doubt heading to the village to source some more Graham Crackers to torment me with).

“The elder Signor is – how you say? – very impressive,” gushed Signor Bianchi. “He has the gravitas.” The admiring tone of his voice was extremely over the top; anyone would think that Laurence of Arabia had just walked past as opposed to the FBI’s Most Wanted in search of ironically named cereal-based products. Nevertheless I have a policy of maintaining public solidarity with H at all times so started nodding away in agreement like one of those bobbly heads that stupid people put on their car dashboards.

“He is what the Englishmen say is ‘dashing,’” added Signor Bianchi with obvious respect. “He has much presence.”

I said “He’s pretty bad, yo,” in honor of my Fresh Prince of Bel Air persona, although fortunately Signor Bianchi’s English isn’t all that great so he didn’t realize he was being bullshitted.

 **14.45** Signor Bianchi has finally left, although not before giving me a poster for a newly established cookery club that he’s hoping we might join. Needless to say I swiftly destroyed this before H could see it, because if H turns up then it will immediately stop being Cookery Club and turn into Fight Club (or, more specifically, Murder Club). Only in H’s case the first rule wouldn’t be ‘Don’t talk about Murder Club,’ it would be ‘Talk about Murder Club then murder the person you told – and then murder them again, just to be on the safe side.’ And while Signor Bianchi might be a bit annoying (and has turned arriving at awkward times into an art form), he still hasn’t done anything sufficiently grievous that would deserve having his cookery club turned into an elaborate murdery free-for-all.

 **14.50**     Oh God, what if that’s H’s ‘big surprise’? I bet it is…I bet Murder Club is H’s big surprise.

 **15.00**     H has got back from shopping in the village. I went through the bags with extreme thoroughness and couldn’t find any Graham Crackers, although I wasn’t particularly reassured by this as H is no doubt hoarding them somewhere else. H just gave me a beady look and admitted that he was a bit confused because he couldn’t understand why a bunch of mongoose fell out of his wallet when he was paying the cashier.

I asked H if there were any signs of Hieronomo but apparently there’s still an ‘away’ sign on the door of the delicatessen and no indication of where he’s gone or when he’s coming back. At the mention of Hieronomo H’s features arranged themselves into a more than usually homicidal expression, so I explained my theory that Hieronomo has realized the error of his ways and has done a runner because he’s afraid of being murdered. H agreed that this was highly likely, although considered it disappointing because he’d been looking forward to disposing of Hieronomo in suitably baroque style. Then I asked H if he’d located anywhere else local to purchase his pretentious maniac food from but he sighed tragically and said that he hadn’t. As far as H is concerned this is A Big Deal so he sounded very serious, although the moment was slightly ruined when he opened the cupboard straight afterwards and one of the mongoose fell out.

 **16.00** Giovanni has just dropped by the villa to hang out and be pretentious with H. This is bad news because Giovanni is unbelievably boring so I immediately beat a hasty retreat out of the kitchen (but not before I heard H fetching him a wineglass then having to try and explain why there was a mongoose at the bottom of it).

 **19.00**     I remained in hiding for as long as possible but was eventually forced to creep into the kitchen to forage for food, where I immediately found Giovanni propped up against the table rambling on about how fantastic it is to finally have an intelligent cultured neighbor. In this respect I have strong suspicions that he’s developing a bit of a platonic man crush on H, although I’m prepared to tolerate it because what he doesn’t realize is that H only sees the world according to three types of people (mongooses, archenemies, and potential meals) and is therefore never going to agree to be the other half of Giovanni’s intellectual bromance. Plus I really like Sophia and if I murdered her husband to death then the chances of our friendship surviving in its current form are slim to none. To be honest I feel a bit sorry for him anyway, considering that he’s clearly destined to be disappointed in platonic man love – from the way he’s gazing at H he’s almost certainly harbouring fantasies of them having a pyjama party while watching intellectual art house films and confiding their deepest secrets before no doubt channelling their inner teenage girls and putting tiny plaits in each other’s hair.

 **19.10** Actually that would be pretty funny. Plus if I got photographic evidence then I’d have enough blackmail material to ensure I’d never have to do any housework around the villa ever again.

 **20.45**     Giovanni has finally left so H and I took a bottle of wine into the garden and sat drinking it on the bench so we could watch the sun go down. H is now so well-trained then whenever I put my feet on his knee he immediately starts massaging them without being asked and will carry on indefinitely until I move them again. ( _Note to self_ : compile a list of examples of H being brought under control to use in future arguments when he tries to imply he’s a bigger badass than I am). H had brought one of his pretentious art magazines with him, although seemed rather taken aback when he opened it and several mongoose fell out.

I browsed around on the internet for a while on my tablet then checked out the local news to see if there had been any murders that could turn out to be H’s ‘big surprise.’ There weren’t, and it’s getting hugely annoying that I still don’t know what this is (I pointed this out to H yesterday, who just looked supercilious and said that the entire _p_ _oint_ of a surprise is not knowing what it is). Then I showed H a picture of the newly-appointed _sindaco_ , which was vaguely interesting on the grounds that she’s originally from America. H immediately looked murderous: he doesn’t like people with red hair because they remind him of Freddie Lounds.

I reminded H that it was Freddie Lounds who first coined the term Murder Husbands (although not, fortunately, Murder Boyfriends) and that she is actually a matchmaker _extraordinaire_ and we should be grateful to her. H didn’t look convinced, but that’s only because he didn’t think of it himself and can never accept that other people can have the occasional good idea.

 **23.00** Just told H that I didn’t mind if he wanted to have an intellectual pyjama party with Giovanni, but he just started rolling his eyes at me like he was about to have a seizure so I was regretfully forced to change the subject.

**Thursday**

There’s now an enormous pile of mongooses on the coffee table from where H has been herding them. As I was walking past he caught hold of my hand and proceeded to explain that he’s enormously gratified that I love him so much but would be appreciative if I stop trying to prove it _quite_ so enthusiastically on the grounds that there’s a real risk of it driving him to a nervous breakdown. I told him that I would think about it, so H said he would be obliged if I think about it (1) hard and (2) fast, because being unexpectedly beset by mongoose avatars 24 hours a day is more than a sane adult can reasonably be expected to stand.

I told H I was rather surprised by such a defeatist attitude and that ‘where there’s a will there’s a way.’

H rolled his eyes around and said that while he’s excessively delighted to have _a_ Will in the vicinity on a permanent basis, that’s sadly not equivalent to having _the_ will; and if I keep trying to prove my amorous intentions courtesy of mongooses then there is a real possibility of him losing the will to live.

 **14.00** On reflection I’ve agreed to stop ambushing H via the power of mongooses. To be honest it wasn’t much of a sacrifice because I’ve always hated that analogy (see previous observation that mongooses are nothing more than large vicious weasels).

“But you are a hugely attractive one,” said H after I’d explained this. “Entirely adorable in fact.”

This doesn’t seem like a particularly positive development. It basically means that as far as H is concerned I am an adorable murder weasel.

H did nothing to save the situation by adding that my previous observation could be more accurately expressed as ‘where there’s a will there’s a gay’ on the grounds that I am so extraordinarily alluring in my weasely murder splendour that the sight of me would be enough to make even the most resolutely heterosexual man convert immediately. On reflection I’m starting to think it was a lot simpler just being a mongoose. At least more so than an amorous Sex Weasel.

 **15.00** Speaking of which, oh my God – Hieronomo’s bearded minion has just turned up again! The last time I saw him he was standing in the garden yelling at me for being a cold hearted cock tease, so needless to say I wasn’t exactly overwhelmed with delight when I saw the outline of his beard materialising through the door panel. He’d obviously been despatched on behalf of Captain Sex Pest this time too, because he was brandishing an envelope in assorted shades of pastel with Hieronomo’s elaborately swirling handwriting on the front and which appeared to have been marinated in _Givenchy For Men_. In fact the stench of the latter was so strong that I immediately folded my arms and raised a single eyebrow at the minion in what is universally recognised body language for: _Well, you’ve really done it now haven’t you, you stupid shit_. Both the minion and his beard acquired expressions of mutual confusion (seriously, nothing will convince me that thing wasn’t self-aware) so I told them to wait because _very_ soon we were about to have company.

Sure enough there were the sound of footsteps before H appeared a few seconds later, eyes flashing with outrage and nostrils twitching like the Duracell Bunny (if the Duracell Bunny was powered only by malevolence and murder batteries). As soon as he spotted the minion the waft of murder vibes became even stronger than _Givenchy For Men_ , so naturally I was expecting the minion to take one look at H’s murder face and evacuate the premises as a matter of urgency. At least that’s what I _thought_ would happen. The problem was that I’d forgotten this is the first time he’d ever seen H close up; and he obviously approved of what he saw, because for a few seconds his perception of H’s swag briefly subdued his perception of the murder vibes (this is essentially the secret of H‘s success in a nutshell) and far from running off the minion began smoothing down his jacket instead and darting coy glances in H’s direction before his beard began bristling in a rather enamoured way – which all goes to show that the propensity to be a creepy sex pest is endemic round here, and possibly the authorities are putting something in the water supply. Needless to say H was not at all pleased at being sleazed over by a walking beard and assumed an expression that could clearly be translated as: ‘Look at me like that again you repellent bearded bastard. Go on. I DARE YOU.’ The minion saw the murder in H’s eyes so thrust the envelope into my hands before disappearing down the street again at high speed. I yelled “Yeah, you better run!” at his departing back. I may or may not have then added: “And find your own devastatingly suave sociopath, you lecherous hairy shit.”

After the minion had gone H and I beamed matching Death Stares in his direction – which we have now got down to a fine art of coordination that would undoubtedly win us _America’s Got Talent_ if such things were allowed – before going back inside to read Hieronomo’s letter. It was basically an attempt to apologise for being a creepy sex pest and was full of gushing statements like “ _I was overwhelmed by your beauty and charm_ ” and “ _The thought of you made me lose my senses,_ ” and pretty much sounded as if it had been cobbled together from the ass-end of One Direction lyrics (not to mention being factually incorrect because ‘losing my senses’ implies he had some senses to lose in the first place). H and I cackled heartily over it for quite a long time before eventually calming down and getting out a notebook and pen so we could plan how we are going to murder him.

 **15.30** I’ve just spotted the couple that lives two doors down from us heading towards our house.  This should have been a non-event in the grand scheme of things, but the problem is that the last time I saw them was during the whole _Numa Numa_ debacle so there was no way I was prepared to sit and make polite conversation with them after such an epic exercise in public humiliation. It was too late to escape inside so I had to hide in the garden shed until they’d gone. Needless to say this was tremendously boring, although I took it as an opportunity to double-check that H’s idea of the ‘big surprise’ hadn’t been stashing corpses in it without telling me.

When I finally emerged from the shed I saw that they’d left a poster for a meeting about an LGBT awareness group in the village and are obviously hoping to recruit me and H as its newest members. Which is all very well – but what they don’t realize is that it’s completely impossible to take H anywhere there are more than five people at once because he’ll just start secretly planning which one he’s going to murder.

 **18.00** I showed H the poster when he got home but he has refused, point-blank, to go to the meeting on the grounds that it’s about social justice and community spirit (and it’s obvious that he thinks getting too closely involved with any of these things is bad for his image of being a Malevolent Badass). To be honest I was actually pretty relieved he didn’t want to go, because it would be extremely hard sitting across the village hall from someone earnestly discussing social justice and community spirit when they’ve seen you drumming along to _Numa Numa_ on a biscuit tin _._

I suggested to H that we could solve the problem of the neighbors by pretending to be relatives rather than bisexual non-husbands. H said this was a splendid plan apart several small flaws, namely: (1) we look nothing alike, (2) judging from our accents we were clearly raised on opposite sides of the planet, and (3) if I really was his relative he probably would have murdered me by now. In retrospect I agree that pretending to be related is not a good plan: firstly because anyone who talks to H for more than 10 minutes gets the strong impression that he wasn’t born in the normal way but rather hatched (or possibly grown in a laboratory by a malevolent scientist) and I might end up getting tainted by association. Secondly, because despite his strong associations with a mad science egg H is still as sexy as hell and if we were family members then I could never pounce on him in a public setting and therefore my testicles _might well explode_.

Have just explained the exploding testicle theory to H in great length. He’d clearly induced himself into a dissociative state so he didn’t have to listen, but I did not let that deter me.

 **19.30**     I’ve just found all the mongooses in a shoebox under the bed. H has kept them for posterity! He is a lover of mongooses! I was so touched by this that I went downstairs and gave him an enormous hug in my capacity as Mongoose in Human Form. H enjoys impromptu hugs, even though he’ll never admit it, so he immediately got all misty-eyed then gave me the sentimental smile which means he’s feeling very happy that he had the foresight not to murder me when he had the chance. Which all goes to show that I am the absolute boss of romantic gestures and the Necrimonicon can kiss my ass.

 **20.00**     Went into the kitchen for a cup of coffee and found H making homicidal faces over Hieronomo’s letter; he says that the next time he sees him it will be _completely impossible_ to stop himself doing something murderous. I pointed out to H that I am something murderous, so in the meantime why didn’t he just do me instead?

 **20.20** Have just been done by H over the kitchen table. This is what is known as A Good Result.

**Friday**

Sophia and Giovanni came round this afternoon to borrow our TV to watch the _Tour de France_ because their own one’s broken. Sophia apologised to me in private and explained that she actually hates cycling but pretends to be interested in it for Giovanni’s sake – so needless to say I was immediately very sympathetic, because I practically wrote the book on having to accommodate your interests on behalf of your significant other’s (or at least I would have done if the book was full of highly illegal activities and banned in numerous different countries). H was extremely polite to Giovanni, although of course H being polite to you means fuck all and I have absolutely no doubt that many more requests like this and Giovanni will be finding himself on the wrong side of a casserole dish.

 **16.00** H and I are slowly dying of boredom. Giovanni is also being hugely annoying and making a big deal out of explaining the minutiae of what’s happening in torturous levels of detail, despite the fact it should be clear to anyone with frontal lobes that H and I couldn’t give less of a shit about gear ratios or shaft drives, or the fact that Power Zone 5 is where the aerobic system converts into the anaerobic one (I mean seriously…what the actual fuck?). In an unrelated point, H is also looking physically ill at the sight of so much spandex.

Sophia eventually patted Giovanni on the knee and told him “I am sure they are already aware of this _caro_ ” (translation: shut up you tedious bastard) but Giovanni just went off on a new spiel about how TTT stands for Time Team Trial. Then he took hold of Sophia’s hand and added that in her case, TTT ought to stand for ‘The Treasured Temptress.’ In my humble opinion Giovanni should count himself extremely lucky that Sophia didn’t simply turn round and vomit over him. I then made the mistake of catching H’s eye, who was obviously thinking the same thing, so we had to pretend we needed to check the food in order to hide in the kitchen until we’d stopped laughing. It took us ages to calm down; in fact we were gone so long that they probably thought we were having sex or something. I told H that if he ever devises a similar nickname for me then I will kill him. H solemnly informed me that if he ever did it wouldn’t be necessary, because he would kill himself first. He then added that in my case TTT would stand for The Tiny Tyrant. I told him that in _his_ case TTT should stand for The Tiresome Twat.

Nevertheless there’s _no doubt in my mind_ that after today we’re going to have to move house as soon as possible because if we stay then it’ll only be a matter of time before H tries to murder Giovanni to death. In this respect my concern is that Sophia would be sad if her other half ended up in a casserole dish, although I also can’t help wondering if she might be secretly relieved? It’s a real shame there’s no way to check, but even I can’t contrive a version of ‘how would you feel if my nominal husband murdered your actual one – go on, be honest’ in a way that’s socially acceptable.

 **18.30** Sophia has forcibly escorted Giovanni from the premises, so H and I breathed large sighs of relief (from entirely different reasons) then sat in the garden and had a civilized game of chess like normal people. H won the first game and I won the second, then H spotted the neighbors coming down the street clutching a bundle of posters and obviously determined to try and recruit us into being community spirited. There was no option but to hide in the shed again until they’d gone. H complained about this endlessly until I was quite tempted to gag him. I pointed out instead that a few minutes hiding in a shed is infinitely better than sitting in the village hall pretending to be upstanding citizens. H replied that he supposed it was better, but only in the same way that syphilis is better than gonorrhoea.

**Saturday**

The campaign of neighbor-based harassment continued today when the guy who lives opposite came and ambushed us in the kitchen. His idea of an opening greeting was: “Ah, Signors! I hope you are not intending to play the Europop very loudly,” before honking with laughter. I found this to be highly embarrassing, but H just gave him the wintry smile he always gives people when he’s secretly intending to murder them to death.

The reason the neighbor had come over is because he’s got it into his head that we are Intellectual Types and was hoping to get our advice on probate administration on behalf of some random relative. H, being an expert on all things even tangentially associated with death, could easily have answered it but pretended he didn’t know in order to make a hasty escape and get on with his murder plans in peace and quiet, which meant that I had to deal with it instead. This was colossally frustrating because the neighbor – not to put too fine a point on it – was as dense as a stick in a bucket of pig shit (in a bucket of _mutant_ _man-eating_ pig shit) and couldn’t understand even very simple points like grants of representation or the role of the executor. He just kept bleating “I only want to get it sorted out” over and over again until I felt like punching him. I mean honestly; what happened to initiative? I myself, for instance, rather want a back massage and a blowjob but I doubt I’ll get either by simply standing there whining and doing nothing proactive.

 **12.00** Went and tracked down H in order to resolve the whole ‘back massage and blowjob’ situation. All you need in this life is a bit of self-determination.

 **14.00**     H has had one of his obnoxious bursts of energy and ordered me to help him clean the villa on the grounds that not only is it a disgrace to refined sensibilities but that most of the mess was created by me in the first place. An argument then ensued in which H tried to encourage me to tidy up in the manner of Mary Poppins – or at least what Mary Poppins would be like if she was a maniac and the most wanted person in 10 different time zones – while delivering an extremely boring lecture about the importance of standards of civilized living. I pointed out to H that we’re supposed to be star-crossed lovers on the run from the law like Bonnie and Clyde, and has _he_ ever seen footage of Bonnie and Clyde whipping out their vacuum cleaner and bottle of Mr Clean because I know I haven’t. H replied that I’m clearly a savage and would probably be more content living in a cave and picking stolen dog fleas off myself. In exchange for this insult I told H that he’d just been reinstated to his previous positon as Mayor of the Friend Zone. H replied that at least when he was in the Friend Zone he didn’t have to live with me in complete squalor and get ambushed by mongoose on a regular basis.

I told H that as of now he’d just been promoted to _Emperor_ of the Friend Zone.

H said that the Friend Zone had a nice kitchen with its own indoor herb garden and at no point contained piles of fishing magazines, stolen murder dogs and _Numa Numa_ , so that was fine by him.

I informed H that if he carries on like this the only thing he'll be getting for his birthday this year is an architectural model of the Friend Zone.

H didn’t even bother replying to this and just gave the most godawful smirk instead – probably because he knows as well as I do that it’s logically untenable to claim someone lives in the Friend Zone when they spent all last night rimming you within an inch of your life.

 **15.30** In the end a compromise was reached in which H agreed to tidy up the heaps of crap in the living room (including a few mongoose who had escaped the original cull) while I half-heartedly pushed the vacuum cleaner around and pretended to polish the kitchen table (the latter was a particularly appalling job considering we have sex on it on a regular basis). All in all it was a bit depressing. H and I are actually rather shit at domesticity – it’s probably why we both cope unusually well in prison because the guards just do everything for you.

As a reward for pretending to do the housework H gave me a patronizing kiss on the head and offered to take me to the theatre, despite the fact that this is a 100% self-serving gift because H is the one who likes going to the theatre rather than me. In revenge I told him he’d have to take me into Rome to see _Wicked_. H was so horrified by this suggestion that he temporarily lost the power of speech. Although in retrospect this is not a very good plan because if I make H take me to see _Wicked_ then this means, by definition, that I’ll have to see it myself. And unlike H I can’t fuck off to my Memory Palace for the entire thing, and there’s no way I am suffering through _Wicked_ if H isn’t having to suffer through it as well.

 **16.10** Just heard the sound of voices from the garden. It’s the gay neighbors! H and I exchanged a gloomy eye-roll at each other and then ran for the shed.

 **17.00** The neighbors loitered around in the garden whilst knocking on the door in an increasingly forlorn way before loudly announcing an intention to wait for us until we got home. This meant that H and I had to hide in the shed for fucking ages. We played I-Spy to pass the time, which is admittedly a shit choice of game to play in a shed. H won the first three rounds, but only because he cheated by giving all the objects their Italian names. In retaliation I chose objects that could conceivably be found in a garden shed – just not in this particular one. So between H’s Italian objects and my non-existent ones, it was more like an exercise in psychological torture than I-Spy.

The neighbors eventually gave up and went off to be socially conscious and awareness-raising somewhere else, so H and I crept back into the house again. I pointed out the irony of the fact that when we think the police/FBI/bounty hunters are going to turn up we become gleeful and jolly and enthusiastically plan how we are going to murder them, but when it’s a pair of middle-aged gay neighbors who want us to be community spirited then we hide in our garden shed.

**Sunday**

ARGH! I have finally found out what H’s big surprise is! And it’s not Murder Club!

H’s big surprise is…

…arranging a marriage license!!

H wants to get _married_. Oh my GOD.

“Are you _crying_?” said H.

“No,” I replied, “of course I’m not. Don’t be stupid. Duh. Of course I’m not crying. My eyes are watering because of the horrific stench from your Italian cooking. And by the way, you better not have put one of the neighbors in it.”

H just smirked and gave me a big sentimental hug, so I hugged him back; and then it was all sentimental hugs until Sophia came into our kitchen and wanted to know why we were weeping and sentimentally embracing. So we told her and she squealed and burst into tears and ran to get Giovanni for an impromptu celebration. So Giovanni came in and also wept and hugged to keep us all company, and it was actually very cheerful – which was quite surprising, because as a general rule H is only truly cheerful when he’s murdering someone.

 **13.30**     Am still in a state of happy shock-based delirium. H and I are going to get MARRIED. 

 **14.00** At least we’ll be allowed conjugal visits now if one of us gets arrested.

 **14.10**     And married people are legally exempt from having to testify against each other in court!

 **15.00**     I’ve finally sobered up a bit and informed H that under _no circumstances_ am I going to take his name, and that I’m not prepared to double-barrel our surnames either because it sounds shit. H said that for once we are in complete agreement. Making a portmanteau out of them is also not allowed, because quite frankly there’s no way I’m going to spend the rest of my life having to introduce myself as ‘Will Grater’ or ‘Will Lecham’ on the grounds that they sound less like dashing badasses and more like the sort of people who would live in their mother’s basements until they’re 40 while The Murder Boyfriends rehearse in the basement next door.

H said he didn’t really care what I call myself because I belong to him regardless and ‘A rose by any other name…’ etc., etc. In this respect I’m clearly going to have to keep an eye on H’s insane possessive streak once we are married otherwise he’ll probably start sewing ‘ _Property of Hannibal Lecter_ ’ labels inside all my clothes, or possibly writing it on my forehead in marker pen while I’m asleep. H then suggested asking Hieronomo to do the catering for the wedding so we can murder him together as our first official act as a married couple. I don’t think he was joking.

Although it’s not a _bad_ idea. At least then we wouldn’t have to pay him.

No, I can’t murder the caterer at my own wedding.

Can I?

No. No, I definitely can’t do that.

Just told H that we can’t murder our caterer: he looked disappointed. I then pointed out that there was nothing to stop us murdering him _after_ the wedding (when all the potential eyewitnesses are too drunk to know or care about the prematurely deceased caterer) so he immediately cheered up again.

 **17.40** Technically I suppose we ought to have someone to be a Best Man, but I’m not sure it would really be possible seeing that we’ve killed most of our mutual male acquaintances at one point or another, whereas the remaining ones have either tried to kill us back or want to arrest us.

 _Note to self:_ Don’t allow H to be in charge of music at the reception, because he will probably just choose something like _The Rains of Castamere_ – and while it’s one thing to murder the caterer, a minion and a beard, you have to draw the line somewhere.

 **18.00**     OH MY GOD, H AND I ARE GOING TO GET MARRRRRRIIIIIIEEEEEED.

 **18.30** H asked me where I’d like to go on our honeymoon to celebrate being legally wedded husbands as opposed to merely illegally murderous ones. I said I quite wanted to visit Florence to have ecstatic marriage sex at all the various locations we once tried to kill each other in. H immediately got all fond and misty-eyed and agreed that this was an excellent plan. To cheer ourselves up at having to wait another two weeks we sat down and drew up a list of all the people in the village we are planning to murder before we go.

 **19.30** H has just shouted upstairs to ask me what I was doing. I told him I was writing in my diary about how much I love him, before realizing it made me sound like a teenage girl.

 **19.35** H AND I ARE GOING TO BE PRONOUNCED HUSBAND AND HUSBANNNNNNNNNND.

 **19.40**     I am so happy I could potentially spontaneously combust. In fact to say I am merely happy possibly counts as understatement of the year (followed only by ‘Houston we have a problem’ and ‘nothing at this dinner party is vegetarian’).

 **20.00** My third week of diary keeping is now over! In less than a month I have achieved the following:

1)      Number of creepy sex pests acquired: 1

2)      Number of platonic besties acquired: 1

3)      Number of husbands-to-be acquired: 1

4)      Number of husbands-to-be acquired who are not on the FBI’s Most Wanted: 0

5)      Number of husbands-to-be acquired who won’t spend our married life constantly reminding me of the time I threw them off a cliff: 0

6)      Number of people murdered: 0

7)      Number of murders planned: 8

8)      Number of husbands-to-be acquired who I love more than life itself, but who I can only inform of this sparingly in order to avoid making their colossal ego explode: 1

9)      Number of husbands-to-be acquired who will have to pay excess baggage on their ego every time we get on a plane to flee the country: 1

10)   Number of husbands-to-be acquired who are the best possible husbands _ever_ despite a series of undeniably unfortunate character traits: 1

11)   Amount of happiness experienced at the thought of growing old with husband-to-be as a legally recognised husband of murder and law evasion: incalculable.

All in all an extremely good result!  Whoever said crime doesn’t pay obviously hasn’t met H.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my head, this takes place in a parallel universe to my first fic (and for the record is filled with outtakes that I deleted from that one for being too cracky ;-)). Nevertheless, it’s definitely one of those that I basically wrote for myself and assumed would be way too surreal and off the wall for anyone else to get into, so tbh I’ve been pretty blown away by the response and am incredibly pleased that it managed to brighten up a few people’s day! I may do a wedding diary at some point, but in the meantime huge thanks again to everyone for stopping by – and hopefully see some of you again soon for the next monster length angst fest :-) 
> 
> MissDis x
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **Update May 2018: Thanks so much to everyone who’s been reading and enjoying this crazy thing! Just to let you know that operation crack wedding diary is now officially on and a fourth chapter is definitely going to be posted later in the year (and needless to say is just as batshit as the rest of the fic is :-D). I can’t multi-task to save my life so it won’t get finished until I’ve done my current WIP, but please do subscribe if you’d like to get the notification xxx**

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Sassy Will Gallery](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13490244) by [MrsSteampunk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsSteampunk/pseuds/MrsSteampunk)




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